


The Woods

by Hagar



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alec Lightwood Has Self-Worth Issues, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Derealization, Developing Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood, Dissociation, Dubious Consent, Episode: s01e11 Blood Calls for Blood, Field Surgeon Isabelle Lightwood, Jace Wayland Is A Child of Abuse, M/M, Magical Bond, Magical Contracts, Parabatai Feels, Ragnor Fell Lives, Suicidal Thoughts, author promises it’ll end well, despite the emotional bruises along the way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-03 19:41:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11539116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hagar/pseuds/Hagar
Summary: Alec accepts Magnus’s first-stated price for defending Izzy. Consequences follow.





	1. Nine of Swords (Alec)

**Author's Note:**

> Love and gratitude to Michaela, who kept me going and encouraged me to not shy back from the story; and to Grimview, who beta'ed.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despair. Fear, helplessness, self-sabotage. Reversed: awakening to reality.

Like a key in a lock or the moment he got a rune _right,_ something slid into place in the back of Alec’s head. When his mind caught up with the world he discovered he’d somehow parried Hodge’s attack and danced almost a full circle around, his own fighting staff raised, perfectly positioned to -

Hodge turned, but it wasn’t enough: all it meant was the descending tip of Alec’s staff caught him in the solar plexus rather than his spine. The impact stunned him long enough for Alec to bring the staff around and down again, and stop it a hair breadth away from the base of Hodge’s skull, marking what would have been - had this been combat, rather than training - a kill.

“Nice,” Hodge said, still a little wheezy. “So you only _look_ like death warmed over. That’s good to know.”

“Yeah,” Alec replied distractedly. He wasn’t even trying to pretend to be paying attention; he turned not just from his neck but from his waist, looking for whatever it was that made _that_ happen. That feeling wasn’t random, couldn’t’ve been: something had just happened, something important. Alec should be paying attention to that, whatever it was. He knew that with the same overwhelming certainty as the lock-in-key feeling still singing in his skull.

Not like he needed that encouragement to spot the flare of rich red silk swishing across the coldly-lit floor. Not like, Alec realized - the song now pulsing in his blood, livelier than birdsong after the rain, strong enough to overwhelm the pit that opened up in his stomach - he didn’t already _know._

“Yeah, he’s here to look at the potion-spell,” Hodge said. He’d come up behind Alec while he was staring at Magnus, stunned by the realization he’d _felt_ Magnus enter the wards. “Wasn’t much time for that yesterday.”

“Yeah,” Alec replied mechanically and then, having somewhat caught up with what Hodge was saying: “You don’t need to remind _me_.”

Hodge huffed with laughter then slapped Alec across the back, a wordless reminder their session wasn’t up. “True enough. Which reminds me,” he added as they both took their places in the middle of the floor, “do I even want to know what he charged you for defending your sister?”

Alec put on his best innocent face, which - Isabelle informed him countless times - was reminiscent of a stunned sheep. “No.”

Hodge’s expression said, quite clearly, that his wasn’t a rhetorical question.

“He dislikes the Clave,” Alec said while he was trying to think, “he was basically just waiting for a reason to jump through that loophole. And I’m - Isabelle - he likes her. I guess that’s lucky.”

“Bane doesn’t do things because he _likes_ people.”

“He gave her that necklace.”

“And did he happen to mention what that was in payment _for?_ ” Hodge scored a point, and knew it; Alec didn’t bother trying to keep that off his face. “More likely he’s trying to play your sister’s sympathy. Odds are the entire Downworld knows about her _contacts._ Trust a warlock to play the long game.”

There were any number of replies Alec could make to that - _Time is on their side_ or _Guess he’ll be disappointed_ or _Izzy knows what she’s doing_ or the ever-reliable _Yeah_ ; instead, Alec merely assumed an opening stance, and waited for Hodge to do the same - which he did almost immediately.

Good. Diverting Hodge off the trail and giving him a false impression was more stress - more _additional_ stress - than Alec needed; this conversation was over, as far as Alec was concerned, and he’d be happier if he never had to have this conversation again, not with Hodge nor with anyone else.

Bad enough that Alec picked up Jace’s tendency to not think things through; the last thing he needed was for anyone to find out what monumentally stupid thing he’d done the previous day.

 

* * *

 

_The Day Before_

“You _can’t_ just let them convict you,” Alec said; his fear and exasperation gave way to despair some time before, and now that emotion made it through his voice. Were circumstances different he’d’ve hated his own voice, but circumstances were his sister was being given a field trial for high treason, and his parabatai -

He couldn’t think of that. He tried to soften his voice, to get Izzy to turn around and face him and face _reason._ “You need an advocate.”

“And if I don’t want one?”

“That’s self-representation.”

“Sounds accurate.”

“I mean it won’t stop the trial, it’ll just make you easier to convict. Izzy -” Alec was wringing his hands again. He forced his arms down to the side of his body, resisting the urge to at least cross them. He might as well quit wasting effort; it was just Izzy and him in the room, and the only reason Alec was even _trying_ was the voice of their mother in the back of his head, berating him. There weren’t a lot of things Alec was sure of, anymore, but second from the top on the list of things of which he _was_ certain, was that he was utterly and completely _done_ taking orders from his mother. From either of his parents. At the very top of that list was that he was going to protect his family, because if he couldn’t do even that then he had no business trying to protect anyone _else._

It occurred to Alec that Izzy finally turned around to face him, and he was still stuck in mid-sentence. “I know we don’t really have anyone. Or if we do it’s no one you trust. But representing yourself is the worst thing you could do other than plead guilty. You should at least,” he continued over Izzy’s derisive snort, “let me represent you.”

“No,” Izzy replied, quickly, vehemently. Alec was taken aback.

“Wh -”

“ _No_. I don’t care how many hours, or days, or -” Izzy threw her hands up, “or _months_ Mom and Dad had you study the Law. I don’t _care_ how sterling your reputation is -”

“It isn’t,” Alec muttered.

“Good! I mean - it isn’t ‘good’ like _you_ mean that word, but -” Izzy was obviously struggling to find a phrasing he wouldn’t reject by knee-jerk. “What the Clave calls ‘good behavior’ is just mindless obedience, and -”

“Okay, that is _not_ true -”

“It _damn_ well is and that is exactly what I mean, Alec!” Izzy’s voice rose into a shout; she didn’t sound angry, though, merely desperate. That, more than anything, stopped Alec in his tracks.

Izzy continued in the same volume and tone. “How can you stand in Court and say I acted for the good of the Clave, if you don’t believe it yourself?”

“Because it’s what advocates do,” Alec shot back, quickly enough to seem unhesitating - but he _was_ hesitating, and his sister knew his tells.

“Except you’re not an advocate. You’re my brother. And you can’t do this.”

Izzy put an ever-so-slightly emphasis on the word _you._ “Do you have a better idea?” Alec demanded.

“Yes,” Izzy replied firmly - and far too quickly for Alec’s liking. He knew his sister; whatever she’d said next would spell trouble. Somehow, though, she managed to exceed his expectations. “I want Magnus.”

“He’s a Downworlder, he can’t -”

But Izzy wouldn’t hear it. “Otherwise I might as well plead guilty. Or represent myself. Unless you have a better idea?”

Alec glared at his sister. Denim bodice or not, Izzy managed to look uncannily like their mother. He bit his tongue rather than say that to her; it wouldn’t help. Talking to Magnus just might, though. Magnus had centuries of knowledge and a hate-on for the Clave that just might be stronger than his current anger with Alec - and besides, this wasn’t about Alec; this was about Izzy, who Magnus liked in her own right. Magnus may not be able to appear in a Shadowhunter Court, but he might at least have some sort of an idea that maybe, just maybe, would be better than the nothing he and his sister had, between them.

What was _wrong_ with the world, that the warlock they knew for all of a week was the best chance of saving his sister - and that’s even assuming… Alec cut the thought off, refusing to even _think_ about the possibility that buying Izzy time might be for nothing. Instead, he said: “Better hope he’s still talking to me.”

“Why wouldn’t he…”

Alec turned from the door to stare her down.

“Oh,” Izzy said in a suddenly-small voice.

“Yes,” Alec agreed. Lydia was the _one_ choice he’s ever made by himself, for himself; it figured everyone in his life would hate him for it, and claim it was for his own good. “So like I said…”

Izzy threw herself across the room and into his arms. It was a most _Izzy_ thing of her to do, Alec thought in the split-second he caught her, before the tension started pouring out of him whether he wanted it to or not. Izzy’s anger wasn’t like other people’s: it didn’t put her love on hold. Alec wasn’t sure if he’d’ve known that was possible, if not for her.

 _Why are you comforting **me** , _he thought, but that would’ve started the argument again, and Alec didn’t have it in him to feel angry with his sister, anymore.

 

* * *

 

It was the wrong decision. Alec knew that soon as Magnus opened the door to the loft; had begun to realize it when he made it to the top floor - through several layers of wards - to find said door closed. Still, Alec held his ground against Magnus’s obvious upset. “It’s not about me, or - any of _that._ ” His tone was getting angry; that wouldn’t do. “It’s about my sister.”

“Oh, I see,” Magnus said scathingly, yet impossibly soft. “Are you referring to the fact that your _adorable_ fiance has Isabelle on trial for treason?”

Alec stared: Magnus held only one glass as he turned from the bar and sat himself in the armchair. The dark teal silk of Magnus’s shirt made a stomach-dropping contrast with the soft blue velvet upholstery, but that wasn’t why Alec was staring; the single glass was. It was a cocktail, not clean liquor; Magnus just poured it from the shaker, must’ve prepared it while Alec was on his way up - and there was an identical, empty glass resting on the side-table next to said shaker. This was a message, as loud and clear as Magnus’s imperious posture or his icy tone when he asked: “Anything I can do for you, Alec?”

“My sister wants you to be her defence attorney; I said I would ask.” As Alec spoke, Magnus raised his hand and started stirring the cocktail with a well-manicured fingernail. Alec’s heart beat against his ribcage at the sign of interest, grudging as it was. “But I’m sorry to bother you -” showing himself out, Alec couldn’t resist throwing some of Magnus’s attitude back at him “- I know a Downworlder can’t defend a Shadowhunter in Court.”

“But a Shadowhunter accused of a crime can choose any advocate.”

Magnus’s words stopped Alec on his way to the door, and drew him back. Magnus wouldn’t volunteer this information unless he was willing to take the case, would he? Slowly, he said: “That _can’t_ mean a Downworlder.”

“The Clave was _so_ rigid and prejudiced back in what they call the ‘Time of Angels’ they didn’t _dream_ of a Shadowhunter asking a Downworlder for help; didn’t even bother to exclude us.” Magnus’s voice was full of spite still, but this venom wasn’t directed Alec’s way. “So!” Magnus pushed himself up and strode forward, towards Alec, “Since, as you all say, _the Law is the law_ -” the corner of Alec’s mouth pulled up in an involuntary smile, as if it had a life of its own; perhaps that was what made Magnus turn - what was for him - serious “- there’s no stopping me from slipping through this gaping loophole. For the right price.”

Relief coloured Alec’s voice; he couldn’t help it. If Magnus was willing to help, _price_ wouldn’t be the problem: Alec wouldn’t let it and besides, if Magnus wanted to antagonize the Clave on their own turf half as much as it seemed he did, he wouldn’t make it a problem to begin with. The first offer would no doubt be outrageous, but this wasn’t Alec’s first negotiation. “Name it.”

Magnus looked up from his drink to meet Alec’s gaze for the first time since he stepped in. “You. In fact,” Magnus continued in something more like his usual tone of voice, almost mocking but not quite, “I’ll do you a pro bono.”

He might as well have known Magnus would drag it back to _that_ ; of course he would. Alec allowed himself to roll his eyes. “Anything else?” He demanded - or intended to: the words came out wrong, desperate and nearly breathless.

Magnus inhaled sharply. “What _else_ is important to you? What _else,_ ” he stepped forward, towards Alec, even as he turned away, “tells me that your sister means enough for you to make a _real_ sacrifice?”

Is that what this was about - sacrifice? What was it - some sort of warlock ritual, or more like the angry words Izzy had hurled at him not an hour before? It didn’t matter; Alec knew that even before the words’ full impact spread through his body. It didn’t matter, because Alec and Izzy had no one else to turn to, and his sister depended on him to make this happen.

“Fine,” Alec spat out - or tried to. He shut his eyes as if that could keep his voice out. _Sacrifice,_ he could do. Alec wasn’t half as clever as Izzy or anywhere near as powerful as Jace; he didn’t have his mother’s ruthlessness or his dad’s oiled efficiency; he was well-trained in _sacrifice._ And if he’d believed, for a little while, that Magnus was different - if it’d felt, for one night, as if all Alec needed to do to not fail was to _be_ \- then this was on Alec, for holding on to childish things.

What hurt the most was that Magnus still came ahead of anyone but Isabelle, because Magnus was at least _there._

“Can we discuss the specifics later, though?” He continued, eyes still closed. “I don’t trust Herondale to wait.”

“Alexander.” Something in Magnus’s voice pulled Alec’s eyes open. Magnus was standing close, close enough that if Alec didn’t have the heavy jacket on he’d’ve _felt_ Magnus there. The warlock’s eyes were serious, the look of a man who wasn’t done talking - but Alec was. Perhaps Magnus realized that, because he blinked then the jovial mask slipped on. “Better we double-time it, then.”

 

* * *

 

He wouldn’t remember any of it. Alec knew that even as he hung on to every word, listened for every nuance. He knew it, because the rising and falling cadences of argument and rebuttal became the rhythm of his breath, the rest of his body a left-behind distant thing; some battles were like that, so intense that later he couldn’t remember what was it that he saw, and what - that he’d reconstructed off Jace’s awareness. The trial was like those battles - except for _no_ \- and Alec knew he wouldn’t remember it later even as he found a wan smile for his sister when she turned to look at him, her eyes wide with Lydia’s words.

Later he’d remember the curve of Magnus’s neck and the crispness of Izzy’s blue dress as she hugged him, in those precious few seconds when it seemed that Magnus’s insight and Lydia’s courage had saved Izzy, before Herondale snatched that away.

How he got to the second floor’s eastern wing, or why - that, Alec didn’t know. The peeling paint seemed to jump into focus, accompanied by hurried flat-shod steps across the floorboards and followed by Hodge’s voice then his hands, as he physically turned Alec around. “There you are; I had to access the security feeds to find you.”

It was easier to follow Hodge towards the elevators. “What’s the rush? I thought we had 24 hours.”

“Lydia wants us both in Ops. Analyst who paged me didn’t say what for.”

“She got an _analyst_?”

Hodge shook his head then pushed Alec into the elevator. “Like I said; now let’s go.”

Two floors down, out the other door and turn left, the ops floor was deserted other than Lydia. She swiveled towards them at the sound of the doors: her eyes were very wide and in her hands she held -

“Is that the Cup?” Hodge demanded.

“They found Jocelyn,” she replied. “They’re in the infirmary. Hodge, if you’ll escort me - even in here -”

“Of course.”

“They took the Cup into Valentine’s lair,” Alec said, voice flat. Of course they did. Jace believed he could get away with anything, and Clary just didn’t _care._ “I’m surprised they didn’t just hand it over to him.”

“Apparently that almost happened. I’ll try getting the whole story again when they _slept._ ”

“It’s Jace and Clary, are we surprised?” Hodge sounded nearly amused; Alec shot him a venomous look. “Though forgetting to sleep for three days is pushing it, even more Jace.”

“Actually, it’s four.” Alec didn’t even try keeping the irritation out of his voice.

It only took Lydia a second to do the math; Alec was referring to the night before she arrived. She raised her eyebrows. “That ‘training mission’?”

“More like the second-in-command of the local vampire clan showing up with Clary’s Mundane friend. Formerly Mundane - he got Turned. Involuntary. I think.”

“You _think_ a vampire violated the Accords?”

“No, I think they didn’t _stake_ the guy.” Clary was too sentimental, and Jace - Alec cut the thought off. That was bile, and Lydia didn’t deserve it. He swallowed back his anger best he could, and asked: “What do you need me for?”

“I don’t.” Lydia blinked in surprise, then reached as if to place her hands over his arms and said, very gently: “It’s your family.”

_My family is -_

The words were still stuck in Alec’s throat like a rock long moments later. The ops floor remained deserted - on Lydia’s orders, had to be. The thought occurred to him to just turn around and head back to the elevator, go straight to Izzy - to Izzy and Magnus, he’d’ve remained with her - and walk away from the pain that was, no doubt, waiting for him behind the infirmary’s privacy screens.

Jace was _right there_ and Alec couldn’t sense him. He hadn’t been able to sense Jace since - he didn’t even know: when last was he able to call Jace’s moves before they happened? Last that he was sure of was back at the Hardtail, a week before; and it’s been over a day since Alec ordered Hodge to _Do it_ , since the Bond was more than a whisper-faint ghost trail that might as well lead nowhere, let alone to another person _._

He needed Jace: that was the truth. No matter how angry Alec was, how furious, or how desperate he was to break the good news to Izzy and enjoy the momentary relief - he _needed_ Jace. Needed -

Alec turned to the stairs, and didn’t even bother taking them one at a time. The blue-green spellfog around the sleeping woman was telltale - as was her red hair - but she didn’t matter, and neither did - for the moment - Clary, sitting behind her like a guardian angel. What mattered was Jace, there, _real_ like nothing had been since -

He was already reaching back for Jace - who reached first - already felt the muscles of his face soften into something less painful; a small eternity of _finally, already_ before the memory of Jace’s face at the Silent City’s Gate came crashing in, together with all that Alec tried to keep together since and the Inquisitor’s voice, as if she was still speaking right there, at the very moment.

“Clary gave the cup to Lydia,” Jace said, _clearly_ mistaking what made Alec freeze. “Hodge should be escorting her -”

“I know.” All of his anger and all of - everything, couldn’t drown out the need to touch, to hold, to re-establish that Jace and he were each other’s. Alec turned away before he would betray himself.

Jace’s voice followed him, angry and hurt. “That’s it?”

“I don’t want to get into it.” Alec refused to turn. There was nothing he could do about stopping in his track - that wasn’t volitional - but he refused to turn around and give in.

“Well, I do! You almost _killed_ me, tracking through our Bond like that -”

“You tried to kill _me!_ ” Alec yelled. He was angry enough to face Jace.

“As I recall, you’re the one who held a sword to _my_ throat!”

“And who brought us to that?”

“I don’t know, which of us was sending an innocent to be tortured -”

“That was not -”

“I’m trying to save you from yourself!” Jace threw his arms up. They stepped so close to each other, in their anger, that his hand brushed very near Alec’s arm.

Alec took a half-step back, upper lip curled in distaste. “Everything you do is for a higher purpose.”

“Of course it is! Alec, come on - we’re Shadowhunters, that’s what we’re _for_.”

“Do you even realize who you sound like?”

“What -”

“Is that why you almost gave the Cup to Valentine?”

Jace grew paler than exhaustion alone had made him. He flinched back as if slapped.

Clary rose from her watch, colour high in her cheeks. “How _dare_ you -”

“You _stay_ out of it!” Alec shouted. Louder than he intended; his voice echoed off the walls, rattled the trays and the screens. Clary stepped back, arms half-raised to defend herself; Jace may as well be made of stone. In the ringing silence that followed, Alec’s breath was loud and laboured.

He met Jace’s eyes. “This is not about her. This is about _you._ And now,” he had to pause for breath, and to settle his voice again, “if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to tell _my_ sister she still has a future.” With that, Alec turned himself around and strode out.

And if Jace’s stricken, bruised look was the mirror of Alec’s heart -

Jace broke it, Alec told himself firmly; Jace could damn well fix it, or even Clary, if she cared about him half as much as she claimed to.

Alec was _done_ fixing what Jace broke.

 

* * *

 

Isabelle squealed like she hadn’t since her age was in single digits, and launched herself at him. “You knew!”

Alec held her tight, tucked her head under his chin and breathed in the scent of her, _alive,_ warm, _breathing._ “I didn’t.”

She punched him in the kidney, ineffectually. “You kept saying they’ll come back. Of _course_ you knew, of _course_ they did, Jace is your _parabatai_ -”

Magnus cleared his throat, louder than strictly necessary, then waited until Alec - grudgingly, as much as he appreciated Magnus cutting off that tack - lifted his gaze to meet Magnus’s. “Well, my work here is done. Walk me out, will you? We have some _business_ to settle.”

Izzy untangled herself from him. “Go; I’ll be fine. I’m free to go!” she declared, sing-song, as she all but danced out the door.

Magnus was still looking at Alec, his eyes unreadable.

Alec went to the door, closed it, then stepped back. “Now what? How does this work?”

“You ask this now?” Magnus said, soft and amused.

“Yes, well.” Alec rubbed a hand over his eyes, finally giving in to the burning. “It didn’t matter. I’d’ve said yes anyway.”

“Oh, Alexander.”

Only his parents had ever used his full name, before Magnus. In their mouths, the name sounded like gravel, or sometimes like a leather crop, if his mother was particularly ticked. He hated that; ‘Alec’ hurt less. In Magnus’s mouth, though, the way his tongue wrapped around the consonants, _Alexander_ sounded luxurious, tantalizing. Magnus’s Alexander was someone that - it felt like - he could enjoy being.

Could’ve, if he didn’t have another trust - and it occurred to Alec, suddenly, that he _really_ didn’t know what he’d consented to.

Magnus continued, as if musing. “It seems neither of us was as careful as we should’ve been. I really should’ve been more specific. I could’ve stated the price to be your _services -_ ”

Alec’s cheeks were on fire, as were his ears, but he didn’t notice that amidst everything else that was going on in his body: his throat was tight, mouth dry, heart going several times its usual rate, heat pooling in his stomach like -

Magnus kept talking. His voice was soft still, but it lost both the humor and the pondering note. “But I didn’t; all I said was _you._ I didn’t qualify, and you didn’t demand that I do, before you agreed. Words matter, in a magical contract; words, and the time at which they’re said. Oh for goodness’ sake, Alec, don’t be ridiculous,” Magnus’s tone changed on that last sentence, probably in response to whatever was showing on Alec’s face, “I’m a lot of things, but I’m not cruel. Go on with your life, however you choose to live it. But I want you to remember this.” He put his finger near against Alec’s lips, as he had _that_ night, the night when Alec had come over because he needed to get _away_ and Magnus - unlike everyone else - _wanted_ him. “You are always welcome in my home. Everything you need - _you_ , individually - will be cared for. Just show up, sometimes. All right?”

 _Yes,_ Alec wanted to breathe. The terms Magnus stated were no price at all - the opposite, even: Magnus managed to turn what should’ve been Alec’s debt into an obligation set on himself. _Yes,_ Alec wanted to reply, except no words were there. Partially it was because of exhaustion, physical and - mostly - emotional; partially because the room was familiar, and warm, and safe for once, with no one about to barge in; but Alec only registered that in the periphery of his awareness because he and Magnus were staring into each other’s eyes.

Alec leaned forward, not even half an inch, just enough to touch his lips to Magnus’s skin; he didn’t break eye contact. The touch was whisper-soft but it sent _something_ up and down Alec’s spine, shooting out all the way to his fingers and spreading into his head, like _just_ the right amount of sweet wine.

Magnus’s voice was as soft, too. “That seems to be an affirmative answer. Why don’t you give yourself another moment, dear; you had quite a bit of a day. I know my way.”

“Okay.” The word spilled from his lips with no thought behind it. Magnus was right, though: it’s been a terrible couple of days, and Alec was woozie with relief and fatigue. He could use another moment. It was all right, now.

 

* * *

 

_The Present_

He felt Magnus’s presence within the Institute’s wards like a key sliding into a lock and for a moment, that was the only thing in the world.

 


	2. Seven of Pentacles (Magnus)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Consequences. Harvest, reward, accomplishment. Reversed: over-eagerness, gamble, loss.

“What would you have me do?” Lydia asked.

The day before, Magnus might’ve been tempted to say it would be best to let things play their course; the day before _that_ , Magnus wouldn’t have considered bringing it up with Alec’s _fabulous_ fiance at all.

“Now, it isn’t…”

Lydia cut him off. “Magnus. I thought you and I were done playing.”

Better for Alec, that his wife-to-be was devoted in her way, but for Magnus… He wanted to _keep_ Alec, to treasure him, keep him safe, to put a stop to how he allowed himself to be used until the day would come when, worn to the bone, he’d be cast aside.

But if Magnus were to have any claim for being that sort of trustworthy, then he knew what he had to do.

 

* * *

 

_Two Days Before_

It was the sort of a situation that made Magnus appreciate - if not the wisdom then the cleverness of Camille’s approach to interpersonal relationships. It certainly made one less likely to be pulled apart in a thousand directions, although - Magnus made a note to tell Camille, if the opportunity came - even she couldn’t have found a way out of this one without a _fantastic_ amount of lies.

 _Except I wouldn’t’ve minded, Cherie,_ whispered Camille’s voice in his memory. And that would’ve broken them up, Magnus knew, even if the callous lies themselves hadn’t; but he’d thought, if he loved her enough -

Little over a century later and there he was, playing a role uncomfortably Camille-esque: on his phone was a text from Isabelle, explaining her situation - really, one had to commend the youngest Lightwood on her vocabulary - and just into Magnus’s outer wards was her brother. There wasn’t much of a question _why_ Alec was there; even had Izzy not alerted him to recent developments, only a naïve person or a fool would not consider that the Clave would lash out in response to having been humiliated for all the Downworld to see - a humiliation Magnus had a crucial role in, of which Alec was not aware.

By Downworld Law, Isabelle and Jace were both indebted to Magnus for the service he’d performed at their request; by decency - as well as the law of his conscience - Magnus ought to help Isabelle escape the noose she’d all but put around her neck in order to protect Jace, Clary and himself. Magnus was inclined to follow decency over pragmatism: he liked Isabelle, believed their world would be better off with her still in it, and knew her brother could be be maneuvered into believing kindness from a warlock - well, from _him_ \- without looking for hidden hooks. The one problem was, said brother was also well on his way to break Magnus’s heart, and having only just discovered he’d recovered from his previous heartbreak, Magnus was _seriously_ disinclined to be forgiving about that; which was the reason he was thinking of his _infamous_ ex.

Magnus didn’t need to feign any of his irritation as he opened the door to Alec then promptly turned around, yawned for effect and said: “Tired of bickering over the guest list for your wedding?”

“I need to ask you something.”

 _Very wham-bam, aren’t we?_ “Will it take long? I have a life to live, and -” Magnus paused, to achieve that impromptu impression “- there’s not much for us to talk about.”

“It’s not about me, or - any of _that._ It’s about my sister.”

Magnus finished pouring his drink. It was a good thing he had his back to Alec, and that his hands were hidden; otherwise it’d’ve been difficult to hide the tremor. He needed another second before facing his audience. “Oh, I see,” he drawled. “Are you referring to the fact that your _adorable_ fiance has Isabelle on trial for treason?”

Alec’s expression, as Magnus turned around again - this time with the martini glass in hand - was priceless. This was exactly where Magnus wanted him to be. He felt sick, but sat himself regally nevertheless. “Anything I can do for you, Alec?”

“My sister wants you to be her defence attorney; I said I would ask.” There, no reason to feel bad; the fine young man recovered quickly - then, just as quickly, turned tail and attempted to run: “But I’m sorry to bother you; I know a Downworlder can’t defend a Shadowhunter in Court.”

“But a Shadowhunter accused of a crime can choose any advocate.” Magnus had been waiting for this sort of an opportunity for _quite_ some time.

The most neutral words Magnus had yet said that night, they may as well have been a leash, for how they stopped Alec and drew him back. “That _can’t_ mean a Downworlder.”

“The Clave was _so_ rigid and prejudiced back in what they call the ‘Time of Angels’ they didn’t _dream_ of a Shadowhunter asking a Downworlder for help; didn’t even bother to exclude us. So!” Magnus pushed himself up and strode forward, towards Alec, “Since, as you all say,” he bent himself forward like a crotchety old person, “ _the Law is the law_ \- there’s no stopping me from slipping through this gaping loophole.” A pause for emphasis, then: “For the right price.”

Relief coloured Alec’s voice. “Name it.”

The first price quote was only ever meant to be rejected, so Magnus figured he may as well go to town; it wasn’t as if he had anything to lose - Alec wasn’t going to walk out, not now that he knew Magnus could deliver. He looked up from his drink, held Alec’s eyes and said: “You. In fact,” he continued cheerfully, “I’ll do you a pro bono.”

“Anything else?” Alec asked. The eyeroll that preceded the words, as well as the softening of his lips, indicated that he understood how the game was played.

Magnus allowed himself the pretense of disappointed. “What _else_ is important to you? What _else,_ ” he stepped forward, but turned aside then away _just_ as he reached a certain distance - or lack thereof - from Alec, “tells me that your sister means enough for you to make a _real_ sacrifice?” Magnus paused for a beat before delivering the offer he’d hold Alec to - his bow and quiver, painful enough that Alec would believe it but not of sufficient objective value that he’d reject it - but Alec must’ve read a different meaning into the silence.

“Fine,” he said, so tightly it was painful to hear.

Magnus swivelled, shocked. Did Alec just…? But the words couldn’t be taken back: warlock games were _Games_ , with a capital letter.

“Can we discuss the specifics later, though?” Alec continued, eyes closed and his face set with stony acceptance. “I don’t trust Herondale to wait.”

Oh, for the sake of little flying spaghetti monsters, they were dealing with a _Herondale?_ Magnus would wonder if the day could get any worse, but he well knew what happened to anyone who wondered such things. Pompous, overly-self-assured Herondales he could deal with; he had a much more pressing - and delicate - problem to deal with.

“Alexander,” he said with all the gentleness he could muster.

Alec’s eyes blinked open, but - oh, they couldn’t have this conversation now. It would have to wait; Magnus would have to find a way to make it work. This was on him, and he had no one but himself to fault. With effort, Magnus reached for the more casual of his professional personas. “Better we double-time it, then.”

 

* * *

 

Twenty-four hours; that was how long Magnus had to come up with a plan to ensure Isabelle’s survival - or rather to iron out the details, because there were only so many places on earth where one could live with reasonable safety from demons - but soon as Alec stepped into the room, Magnus knew he wouldn’t have to.

Alec was slouched more than the usual - stooped, really - hands in the pockets of his dress pants as if they were jeans, and his whole posture screamed defeat; that is, if one wasn’t a keen observer who needed people-skills as much as magical prowess to reach - let alone maintain - his station in life. Alec’s body language was dejected, his expression closed off, but he was _alive._ Earlier in the assembly hall he seemed as if he may as well be in a trance, so vacant were his eyes; even the one moment of joy hadn’t shaken him out of it. Whatever had happened, it brought him back - and that could only be one thing, short of Imogen Herondale having had a personality transplant.

“Jace and Clary are back,” Alec said. Then - in a play that would’ve had Magnus laughing if circumstances weren’t what they were - waited a lengthy beat before he added: “They gave the cup back to Lydia,” and on the heels of that - as now Isabelle was the one in shock - spread his arms to the sides and grinned at his sister, wide and relieved and heartbreaking in its openness. “You’re free to go!”

Isabelle screamed and threw herself at her brother. “You knew!” Her tone sounded oddly like an accusation.

Alec caught her with the long practice of a sibling, and held her as if she was a baby or a small child: small, fragile and infinitely precious. “I didn’t.”

There was something in the tone of Alec’s voice that Magnus didn’t like.

Isabelle slapped his back. “You kept saying they’ll come back. Of _course_ you knew, of _course_ they did, Jace is your _parabatai_ -”

There it was again, clearer now; all was not well between Alec and his heterosexual life partner. Magnus cleared his throat, louder than strictly necessary. Relief flashed across Alec’s face for a split second, before he raised his face from where it was buried in his sister’s hair, again wearing his usual scowl.

Lightly, Magnus said: “Well, my work here is done. Walk me out, will you? We have some _business_ to settle.”

Izzy untangled herself from her brother. “Go; I’ll be fine.” She was grinning as she danced on her toes through the door, singing, “I’m free to go!”

Alec’s expression blanked out again. He closed the door and returned, standing closer than before. Without any distractions, Magnus could feel what Alec must’ve been sensing - yet without the knowledge necessary to understand - since the trial formally concluded: the magic of the Contract weaving itself between them, establishing a Bond.

Alec had his hands in his pockets, again, though this time the artifice was easier to spot. “Now what? How does this work?”

Magnus checked his exasperation with an effort; fond as that was, he couldn’t - neither of them could - afford it. In a milder tone, he said: “You ask this now?”

“Yes, well.” Alec rubbed a hand over his eyes, seemingly unselfconsciously. The line of his shoulders started to relax as the Bond continued to spin itself. “It didn’t matter. I’d’ve said yes anyway.”

“Oh, Alexander.” Magnus could see it now, what he failed to before, the internal workings that had Alec accept that first offer as if the next one would be worse. What’s done was done, though, and it was high time for some damage control. “It seems neither of us was as careful as we should’ve been. I really should’ve been more specific. I could’ve stated the price to be your _services -_ ” That was a deliberate gauge: having been testing Alec’s self-control from the start, Magnus had a passably good scale for his reactions. The results were disheartening. The tips of Alec’s ears turned a charming shade of red, but that wasn’t what concerned Magnus. Rather, it was the way Alec didn’t try to fight or hide that his mouth opened a little, or his breath turned quicker and shallower. Alec was prone to losing words - or his temper - and getting all wide-eyed, _adorably_ star-struck, but this was different. The pupils of his eyes were more dilated than the lighting justified. Magnus needed to hurry - and more than that, to avoid any more mistakes.

“But I didn’t; all I said was _you._ I didn’t qualify, and you didn’t demand that I do, before you agreed. Words matter, in a magical contract; words, and the time at which they’re said.” Fear blinked across Alec’s face - no, sheer blind _panic_ did _,_ urgent enough to wrestle its way through the magic working itself in. Magnus reached out for him, involuntarily. “Oh for goodness’ sake, Alec, don’t be ridiculous; I’m a lot of things, but I’m not cruel.” He stopped a whole inch from Alec’s arm without even having to think about it; the Bond going both ways was Magnus’s best shot. He softened his voice and slowed his speech, just a touch. “Go on with your life, however you choose to live them. But I want you to remember this.” He put his finger in a shushing gesture near against Alec’s lips, as he had _that_ night, when it seemed as if things between them might work out without undue pain. The last of the panic melted away, but Magnus didn’t dare assume Alec made the connection. He softened his voice even more. “You are always welcome in my home. Everything you need - _you_ , individually,” and oh, how much he desired to be allowed to _touch,_ “will be cared for. Just show up, sometimes. All right?”

That they haven’t stated any specific terms before the contract was made meant Magnus could shape and reshape them as he saw fit - but for that to take effect, Alec had to agree, best and freely as he was able; otherwise, the Bond would default to its uninhibited state, which Magnus already knew would be _intolerable._

Alec’s expression was soft. For the first time since Magnus first saw him, it seemed as if at least some of the lines etched of Alec’s face were permanently etched already. His breath was neither too deep nor too shallow, and a healthy degree of even. Through his new set of senses, Magnus knew that Alec was feeling a mix of relief, and a surprised sort of joy. But Magnus was looking straight into Alec’s eyes, and those were fully dilated, drugged-looking and dazed.

Alec leaned forward and for a split-second Magnus thought he was about to fall, but no: he kissed Magnus’s hand, deliberately, and infinitely tender.

It sealed the Bond more firmly than any verbal response could’ve.

 

* * *

 

That look was going to _haunt_ him. Magnus was quite sure of that by the time he crumpled up the fifth draft and tossed it aside. He was so angry he could cry, and had no doubt that would happen before the night was over.

It was going to be a long night.

Magnus pushed himself back from the desk at which he was - futilely - attempting to compose a fire message, and got up. This just wouldn’t do. He needed to - and what _was_ he going to do? He was too upset to calm himself by preparing potion ingredients, or any other rote magical job - his usual go-to for this purpose. He’d gone through his library after the recent move, so organizing his books - or any of his other collections - was not an option either. He _could_ cook, but anything that didn’t have maddeningly long breaks while something simmered or sat was also too stressful to be considered. There was always a good party somewhere, but - Magnus glanced at the time - at this time globally, not anywhere he liked which was also minimally safe with Valentine on the loose; a coffee shop would be the best he could get, and the people he knew in that time zone -

He strode back to the desk, pulled a clean sheet of paper over, wrote _I seem to’ve found new ways to get in old trouble_ , and fired the message to Ragnor without bothering to sit down. Then he summoned himself a low-ball with two fingers of Bourbon - a drink for bad decisions if ever there was one - and went out to the porch, summoning and lighting a cigarette as he went. Nicotine was a habit he’d largely given up on and he absolutely _detested_ the scent cigarettes left behind, but he had no patience for a pipe and would be hard-pressed to be angrier with himself than he already was, besides.

Not that night.

He needed company, and he needed it desperately. Magnus was not one to recharge and recover in silence. The odds of Ragnor replying to Magnus’s latest message at anything _remotely_ like a timely manner were slim, and he well knew it; Ragnor was inclined to not notice the passing of time, even on the scale of immortals. Hopefully he’d at least notice the size that the pile of messages had to be growing into - for it was a pile, between Valentine resurfacing and Alec shooting into his life like a falling star. Ragnor was also far from the only person Magnus _could_ contact, but while Magnus knew countless people and liked a fair number of them, the list of those he trusted was much shorter, and of these - no, he wouldn’t call Catarina; her attitude was the absolute last thing Magnus needed.

At least the nicotine was kicking in, and it seemed like Magnus had managed those slow puffs after all. The alcohol, though, that he was likely to regret. If it turned out having a mess of a twenty-something in the back of his head made it so Magnus couldn’t drink -

Well, he had no one but himself to blame. He’d’ve accepted it as his due for fucking up so colossally, except that all the reasons that had him make this grave error in judgment were still true; he hadn’t stopped resenting Alec’s upcoming marriage, his blind devotion to a corrupt institute, his refusal to acknowledge the suffering his choices were causing. The problem wasn’t Magnus’d made a magically-binding promise: he didn’t regret that choice one bit. What he resented was a side effect that - like everything else in this mess, Magnus thought scathingly - he hadn’t foreseen.

He knew Alec was the sort of a person liable to neglect themselves; it was part of why he worded the fine print the way he had. What Magnus hadn’t known was that Alec considered adequate any meal that provided what his body needed, and no matter if it was entirely emotionally unsatisfying; that he didn’t even try - or so it seemed through the bond - to treat what soreness the healing runes didn’t; or any of a thousand other small miseries the precise nature of which Magnus hasn’t deciphered yet. Alec was miserable: Magnus had known that before, and now he _knew._ What he resented was the sympathy that invoked in him, the impulse to discard his own upset; and how that only made Magnus’s earlier anger more vicious - and so started the fire of self-loathing he was trying to put out in smoke.

 

* * *

 

They were sitting in the New York Institute’s infirmary, and what started as a reasonable, if tedious conversation between two people who found Shadowhunter practices to be anything but safe or sane - if _regrettably_ consensual - took a turn into the more pressingly concerning.

“What if someone else did the hurting? Like, a third party.”

“This _really_ depends on the specifics.” Magnus frowned. “What did Jace do?”

Clary gave him a Look worthy of being Valentine’s daughter. “It wasn’t Jace, it was Alec. He practically accused Jace of siding with Valentine. Just because he had the bad luck of Valentine raising him -”

“Stop.” Magnus raised a hand. “Hold up. Rewind. Explain.”

“This might get long,” Clary said apologetically.

“Good thing the Institute is paying for my time, then, and not you. Now - what’s this about Valentine having raised Jace?”

“Apparently he’s my brother.”

Because of _course_ an already dreadful week had to take a turn right into the Wagnerian.

 

* * *

 

Lydia Branwell smiled at Magnus when he knocked on her office’s door frame, bright and sunny as if there was no one else she’d be happier to see.

“Magnus! Please, come in.”

“Thank you. I have to say - you’re much more convincing as the defence.”

The smile still coloured her voice as she said: “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

Magnus spread his arms. “Well, you certainly make a convincing argument in favour of the new management.”

“I’m not sure how I feel about being compared to Maryse. No, don’t,” she continued as Magnus was about to reply, “That was a joke.”

“I did realize that.”

“I was worried we’d started off on the wrong foot.”

She was genuine, was the thing: Lydia had a remarkably convincing professional smile, for one so young, but she really _was_ delighted to be working with him. That was refreshing in a Shadowhunter, and certainly after Maryse. It could’ve been _much_ nicer if she didn’t present such a… _prudent_ opportunity.

Magnus waved his hand. “No need to worry about that. Now; I spent the better part of the morning - and a fair bit of the afternoon, I might add - exploring the spell that holds Jocelyn. While I can’t say this examination is by any means complete, I do have the conclusion you’d be interested in - and I’m afraid further study won’t change it.”

Lydia leaned forward excitedly while he was talking, but slumped back at the last clause. “You can’t break it.”

“Not without knowing what that potion was, exactly. This is a powerful working; it can only be undone by its exact counter.”

“How many spells like that even exist?”

“More than one would think; although they _are_ quite esoteric, and difficult to research. Now, I’ll do my best, of course - but locating the warlock who crafted the potion just might be easier; or at least, quicker.”

“I don’t suppose you know who that is.”

“No. I might’ve been able to do that from the potion itself, given how powerful it is, but not from its effects. That said, there aren’t that many warlocks capable of such a working.”

“How powerful would they have to be?”

This information he was loath to give away. Were circumstances different he might’ve tried to find a way around it, but the stakes really were that high; Valentine was the greatest threat Downworlders had ever faced, and there were only so many people who both knew him well and were willing to oppose him. Jocelyn was worth this admission. “At least as powerful as I am.”

Lydia blinked as she took that in. There were only a handful of warlocks of Magnus’s caliber worldwide. Shadowhunter intelligence was guaranteed to be inaccurate, but Lydia would still have the correct order of magnitude - and know Magnus could simply write the names down, if he so wanted.

“We’ll need a shortlist,” she said slowly. “Will you look it over, when we have it? We’ll need your help in reaching out to any potentials, too.”

“I could do that,” he allowed. The former part of Lydia’s request amounted to correcting any gross mistakes the Shadowhunters would no doubt make, and the latter - to protecting jittery warlocks and trigger-happy Shadowhunters each from the other. “I’m tempted to bill you by the accuracy of the list and the wisdom of the contact team.”

“This certainly presents a great motivation,” she said, with fake sincerity that wasn’t meant to be convincing, “though I _should_ hope you don’t think I require it.”

“You, I’m still making my mind up on.”

She nodded, once, decisively. “So that’s settled.”

“Well - I’d appreciate further opportunities to examine this spell, but this would be - shall we call it a personal study?”

“And if you’ll find anything that could help breaking it, or tracking the warlock who crafted it?”

“I’ll share it with you and you’ll be appropriately billed.”

“You know, I think I might get to appreciate your billing system. It certainly keeps things clear and in the open.”

“That’s the purpose of it, yes. Though now I must ask to talk to you about something _quite_ outside this scope.”

“I’m listening,” she said cautiously.

“Clary told me of her and Jace’s… misadventure, shall we call it? With Valentine. About the claims he made.”

Lydia’s caution increased. “You don’t think they’re true.”

“Oh, I’m inclined to believe Valentine really did raise Jace Wayland - but otherwise I’m disinclined to believe _any_ claim that man makes, other than on his genocidal intents. No, that’s not what I want to talk about. This must remain off the record.”

“Obviously.”

“I could be _vastly_ overstepping, but - Clary relayed a conversation she witnessed last night, between Jace and his parabatai; and it seems to me that marriage of convenience or not, you really do care about Alec.”

“Of course I do. Marriage without love are one thing, but without friendship? Never.”

She was sincere. Better for Alec, that his wife-to-be was at least a certain kind of devoted, but for Magnus, this was the worst of it. Softly, he said: “You make it remarkably difficult to dislike you.”

Her smile looked more like a grimace. “If only you weren’t the only one to think so. Neither Isabelle nor Clary would so much as talk to me.”

“But Jace does?” Magnus returned the expected question, though he did note Lydia didn’t prod into the serve he gave her.

“In a strictly professional capacity, yes. So it would be better if you relayed that conversation to me, that Clary witnessed.”

Magnus sighed; it wasn’t even for effect. Repeating this out loud was going to feel like so much broken glass. “Before he had any knowledge of recent… revelations, Alec accused his parabatai of being like Valentine. Jace was too shocked to reply, and Alec made his exit before Clary could.”

Lydia drew a sharp intake of breath. “This could break them.”

The day before, Magnus might’ve been tempted to say it could be for the best; that preserving that childhood relationship couldn’t be healthy for either man now trapped in it. He’d’ve certainly thought as much. But that was before Magnus accidentally got Alec and himself bonded; he now knew that no matter how furious Alec was with his parabatai, he was nowhere near ready to let him go - that it would be a complete disaster if that relationship fell apart, the kind that Magnus couldn’t in good conscience allow to happen.

“What would you have me do?” Lydia asked.

“Now, it isn’t…”

“Magnus.” Lydia cut him off firmly. “I thought you and I weren’t playing this game with one another.”

So that’s what it meant, that she didn’t respond to his probe. He gave her a long, measured look; she met it unflinchingly.

Magnus wanted to _keep_ Alec. To treasure him, keep him safe, to put a stop to how Alec allowed himself to be used until the day would come when, worn to the bone, he’d be cast aside. But if Magnus were to have any claim to being able to do that, to being that sort of trustworthy, then he knew what he needed to do - and that was to collaborate with a person it’d’ve been much easier for him to consider a rival.

He relented. “See to it that no one but Jace tell him, if he hadn’t already heard. Best he hears it from Jace, when they’re both ready for that conversation.”

“Isabelle will accept it if I say it came from you.”

That was a request. Magnus nodded, granting Alec’s fiance permission to inform his sister.

If nothing else, he’d at least get the credit for his meddling.


	3. Five of Cups (Isabelle)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loss. Longing, rumination, regret. Reversed: affinity, hope, acceptance.

_Day Before the Wedding_

She was afraid she’d made the wrong call, staying behind while Jace and Lydia hurried through the portal, but no: as the portal closed behind the group of six, Isabelle knew that had she _not_ stayed behind to whip the infirmary into shape, Clary wouldn’t have a chance.

Alec was struggling to carry Fell and support Magnus; without Lydia, the three of them would’ve already hit the floor. Isabelle passed them over, focused on Clary instead: she had at least two shax gashes Isabelle could see and was only barely breathing.

There was no time; another Shadowhunter would already be _dead._ Isabelle reached for her celerity rune.

She was a Shadowhunter, and this was her battleground.

 

* * *

 

_Night of the Trial_

She stayed sitting on Jace’s bed long after he fell asleep. His pulse was strong and steady under her hand, where it laid loosely on his wrist; she needn’t worry how he’d take to the medicine she’d given him, to help him fall asleep. That was just a flimsy excuse, anyway, one Jace would’ve never let her get away with if he wasn’t exhausted and this overwhelmed. He was, though, and Isabelle was overwhelmed and exhausted, herself.

Jace was Valentine’s son. Jace was Clary’s brother. Michael Wayland had never _been,_ had been dead from the beginning. Valentine had _raised_ Jace.

That made Isabelle feel sick. That Valentine had lived among Shadowhunters all these years only made her angry, and it turned out she couldn’t get angrier than she already was. That she could deal with; that Jace was Valentine’s son by blood didn’t upset her more than knowing that about Clary did; but that Valentine had _raised_ him -

If she felt this sick just knowing it, how defiled must Jace feel?

He kicked her out, first time she knocked at his door that night, chased her away with anger and a distressingly real fear that Alec would be angry, if he saw her there or knew they talked. That concerned Isabelle more than the rest of it. She went straight to Alec’s room, but found him asleep; Clary, too, had finally left her watch and gone to her room. By that point, Isabelle cooled off enough to recall the _look_ in Jace’s eyes - wide and shaken and not at all like himself - and realize that for him to actually _believe_ whatever it was their idiot brother had said, whatever it was that had happened must’ve hit a very specific, very old soft spot.

When Alec ignored the admonishment for what their parents considered _inappropriate behavior_ they’d moved on to punishment. The morning after it was Jace found in Alec’s bed, rather than the other way around, and where Alec had looked down Jace met their eyes and said: _He keeps the nightmares away._

Isabelle wasn’t Alec: she couldn’t protect Jace from his mind just by her being there. That didn’t make her helpless, though. So she rounded up through the medical vault on her way back to the residential wing, and stayed after Jace had passed out.

If Valentine came for Jace, whether in dreams or in person - the wards wouldn’t keep a Shadowhunter out - then Isabelle was already there.

 

* * *

 

She kicked at the training bag again. Isabelle was barefoot, and the impact kicked back all the way to her spine even through the adrenaline. They had runes for pain, too, but the better the body was trained the better runes responded; Isabelle could run barefoot on broken glass, if she had to. Thick skin could save lives in combat, but Isabelle found herself missing the sting of rough canvas on soft, unconditioned skin. It was a hell of a lot harder to work out one’s anger and frustration when one’s body just wasn’t impressed with the effort one was putting in.

An elbow, then a close-range downwards kick; it seemed that the bag would give sooner than her frustration would.

The way Alec kept orienting himself around Lydia was going to drive Isabelle _crazy._ He was always no more than a few steps away from her; always in sync, always getting things she wanted done before she’d verbalized them. Lydia wasn’t the person Alec was meant to have that kind of rapport with. She wasn’t his parabatai, Jace was - but Alec was too busy looking to Lydia to notice Jace trying for as little as eye contact.

Looking to Lydia for - what?

Isabelle moved forward into a palm-heel combo - right followed by left - and felt the shock of it run through her shoulders and down to her hips.

It wasn’t just that this wasn’t Lydia’s place; it was also that Alec-and-Jace weren’t _like_ that. They didn’t agree with each other any more often than Isabelle and Alec did; they’d argue without pause, then turn around and execute a plan in perfect synch no one had noticed they’d agreed on - not even Isabelle, sometimes. But when it came to Lydia, Isabelle couldn’t tell Alec’s signature at all. Alec had a box inside his head he could lock himself inside of, when he felt the need; Isabelle well remembered him doing that when they were younger, putting away any thought that was his own to make room for the ones their mother wanted him to have.

He hadn’t done that since he and Jace formally realized their Bond.

Isabelle kicked herself off from the floor and came down at the bag with her full weight and strength channeled through her heel - then scrambled for force and twisted into an airborne roll as the bag fell down, torn off its anchoring. Isabelle landed neatly, then got in one last snap kick.

When she looked up, Clary dodged the motion of her own bag to note: “Now that’s just petty.”

Isabelle glared at her.

Clary shook her head. “Point made.”

 

* * *

 

“Well, this is an interesting change of pace,” Hodge commented when he turned around from the medicine cabinets to find Isabelle there.

“Admit it,” she said lightly, “you didn’t even notice I changed the security.”

He rolled his eyes. “And here I thought this was a coincidence.”

She strode into the room, heels clicking. She held her hand forward and said: “Show me.”

“Amphetamines,” Hodge said as he handed her the small plastic bottle. “For Jace.”

“Trouble sleeping?” That’s what she was afraid of: that Jace would deal with insomnia by embracing it.

“Trouble keeping his head together.” Hodge had the expression of one who just swallowed a bitter lemon. It was the same expression he always had when dealing with whatever trouble any of the three of them had gotten into and like always, Isabelle wondered how it could be so alike and yet so _different_ from the expression her mother had reserved for her.

“I mean it. If he’s trying to go without sleep…”

“He’s not; he _is_ trying to not get himself and others killed on a mission. I mean,” Hodge tilted his head slightly, “have you tried holding a conversation with him recently, that’s longer than three sentences?”

“My _charming_ adoptive brother is no more talkative than the usual. Possibly even less.”

“That’s because he can’t focus worth shit.” Hodge’s tone was frank, but not blunt. “So far he manages to keep himself together once the adrenaline starts going, but that’s not going to last much longer.” He considered her curiously, but carefully. “You’re not going to take those away.”

“No. I’m going to make sure it’s the optimal dose and the best formulation.” Amphetamines were no substitute for sleep, but they’d keep Jace functioning and _alive_ longer than he could otherwise manage - and they were a safer choice than anything to make him sleep. “How’s he for temper? Any extra vigilance, extra anger?”

“I almost _wish_ that was a problem.”

“Right.” Amphetamines really _were_ the best choice of stimulant, than, but - Isabelle opened the stimulants drawer, returned the capsules Hodge took to their original bottle, and carefully tapped five capsules out of a different bottle. “Newer formulation, slightly higher dose. I figure he should be able to get at least four, maybe up to six hours out of it.”

“Not longer?”

“Downside of not being Mundane.” She handed Hodge back the bottle.

“Thanks.”

“Thanks for keeping an eye on him.”

He huffed. “You know what I don’t get?”

“What?”

“Your brother, the other one? He’s been handing me my ass.”

“Alec? seriously?”

“On a platter.”

That didn’t sound like Alec. Isabelle looked at Hodge dubiously. “He’s not usually good at doing anything productive with his emotions.”

Hodge shook his head in a way that said he was well aware, and had nothing. “He’s not usually the stronger of the two, either, but he’s top of his game. Branwell must be good for _something._ Thing is,” Hodge continued before Isabelle could say something scathing or otherwise inappropriate, “he’s the one who’s angry; and I don’t need to tell you how Alec holds a grudge.”

Isabelle snorted involuntarily. There wasn’t any humor in Hodge’s expression, though; he really _was_ concerned. “He’ll come around.”

“Before they weaken enough one of them gets killed then the other one dies of heartbreak?”

“Hodge…”

He lifted the pill bottle and gave it a little shake. “You tell me how long these are going to work, Isabelle.”

Hodge was her de facto nurse; he didn’t ask because he didn’t know, but rather to remind her. “A week, if we’re lucky.”

“Sort him out before then,” Hodge told her flatly, and left.

 

* * *

 

It made Isabelle want to cry, break someone’s bones or both, to hear Alec swear up and down that he was happy, that this was what he _wanted_ \- to be this shadow waiting on someone else’s word, a silent executioner with no opinion of their own. This wasn’t Alec, it couldn’t be, but Isabelle would sooner coax water out of a rock than have her brother admit it.

And to think that she had _hoped_ -

It hadn’t occurred to her that Magnus never provided a service without a fee until Hodge told her of Alec’s claim, that Magnus had defended her _pro bono_. It seemed to her that was exactly the sort of a thing Magnus would do: he’d never stated a fee for the attempt to recover Clary’s memories. She didn’t tell Hodge that, but rather agreed with his assessment that Magnus was probably playing the long game. She also didn’t tell Hodge what she thought Magnus had done: request some sort of outrageous price Alec was too embarrassed to repeat out loud. After all, the warlock had only been trying to get in Alec’s pants since the moment he laid eyes on him; Magnus Bane was Isabelle’s sort of a person, which meant he was _exactly_ the kind of a guy who’s ask for underwear, or possibly a proper kiss. That he and Alec had studiously avoided each other the day after the trial had raised her hopes.

They were still avoiding each other nearly a week later. Isabelle would’ve hoped Alec was drowning the misery of the frayed parabatai bond in sex, except he was also _still_ trailing after Lydia like some Forsaken, and the wedding preparations were still in full swing. Even Alec - Isabelle thought - _even Alec_ wouldn’t do that; and even if he could bury his heart that deep, Magnus wouldn’t stand for it - not if he managed to get Alec to open up by so much as a _crack._

It was insane: Alec’s been weighed down by _that_ secret for years, and now that Magnus was real, there to make Isabelle’s teenaged promise true - _One day someone will love you, heart and soul_ \- and Alec still wouldn’t put down that burden. _That_ was the shadow haunting Isabelle, which she tried to put out of her mind only to have it find her alone in the dark, in the small hours, after she’d finally gone to bed: what a lifetime of burdens could and would do.

The wounds of the mind could kill as surely as the wounds of the body - Isabelle had learned that before she came of age for runes. It’s the end that waited, patiently, on Shadowhunters who were good enough and lucky enough to survive the demons, who were so disciplined, carefully controlled in every moment of their lives: eventually they fell on their sword suddenly and without warning, or else had the chaos they’d battled all their lives erupt from the ravines of their minds and devour them whole.

It was what happened to Shadowhunters like Alec, but it wasn’t going to be Alec. Her brother was not going to die of despair or madness; she wouldn’t let that happen, Isabelle swore as she stared up at the dark ceiling of her room: she’d refused to tame herself if it was to please her mother and she’d refused to kill on command, but she covered and pulled her hair back to ease pressure off Alec, and she would _kill_ -

What a childish thing it was of her to say, _It’s your life to ruin._ Alec deserved better than that; she owed him better than that. It was easier to lay down someone else’s life, after all, and Alec - Alec would lay down his _soul._ He wholly believed that’s what he was for. To turn aside, to turn away - no: Isabelle wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t leave her brother alone, and no matter if he chased his parabatai away, no matter if he turned away from someone who so _clearly_ wanted to love him, no matter what he was willing to do to _himself_ ; Isabelle wouldn’t leave him on his own.

And if that meant she had to produce this damn wedding herself, then it was a small price to pay.

 

* * *

 

_Day Before the Wedding_

Ragnor Fell, Isabelle was ready to write off for dead; Magnus was still clutching him desperately, flecks of magic flying - but no more than flecks; Alec was struggling to carry Fell and support Magnus; without Lydia, the three of them would’ve already hit the floor. Isabelle’s pressing concern was Clary, sporting at least two shax gashes Isabelle could see and only barely breathing.

Isabelle threw her arm out, wordlessly gesturing Jace - who was carrying Clary - and the rest of them towards the infirmary. “Call Catarina Loss!” She snapped at the floor in a voice meant to carry, then hurried after the others.

She was afraid she’d made the wrong call, staying behind while Jace and Lydia hurried through the portal then ignoring the demons Raj and his team battled, but no: had Isabelle _not_ stayed behind to whip the infirmary into shape and set out all the equipment she might need, Clary wouldn’t have a chance. Even so, Isabelle had her stele out to activate her celerity rune before she hit the six stairs leading up from the ops floor to the infirmary: this was a battle, and Isabelle’s enemy was Death itself.

It was a blessing that the demons had poured through to the Institute after all: otherwise, Isabelle wouldn’t have known to pull out the cocktail she’d painstakingly put together - one failure after the other - to combat the effects of shax venom poisoning. There was no time to administer it nice and slow by drip: Isabelle took Clary’s wrist and slid the needle right into the vein. Clary struggled, but the anticonvulsant hit almost immediately.

The celerity rune quit. Isabelle didn’t reactivate it. “Were you injured?” she demanded of Jace - yet to move from Clary’s side - as she set up the oxygen mask.

“No,” he replied automatically.

Isabelle grabbed him by the sleeve, called out for Lydia then started in the direction of the supply chest with the red sticker, even as she shouted - over the unavoidable emergency din - “I need another bed by Clary’s!”

Lydia met them by the supply chest. “What is it?”

Isabelle was busy rummaging for a box of glass slides and a handful of sterile needles. It was Jace who answered: “Blood typing. You’re the only one not on file.”

Isabelle pricked one of Lydia’s fingers, and carefully squeezed out two drops of blood, each on its own slide. Then she took one of the slides and a clean needle and went over to Clary’s bed. Tiny granules of clotted cells appeared as soon as Clary’s blood mixed with Lydia’s. Isabelle hissed out a curse, dropped the slide into a conveniently-placed bin and returned to Jace and Lydia. Jace’s expression told her what she’d find, but Isabelle looked at the slide with Jace’s and Lydia’s blood anyway: more clots.

“ _Ugh._ ” Isabelle pressed her fingers over her eyes, trying hard to think. Shadowhunters were more difficult to crossmatch than Mundanes, but Jace and Clary were on a whole other level: they had some sort of freak Bombay phenotype, compatible only with each other. Mundane blood could be used in a pinch and Isabelle was usually careful to keep a few units in case of emergency, but she hadn’t the time to restock since the night Jace had shown up with a feverish Clary in his arms - and even if she had, shelf-stable blood had to be carefully thawed and Clary was dying _now._

Isabelle’s protocols were cobbled together from Mundane guidelines and her personal experience with - and study of - Shadowhunter physiology: it didn’t take much to throw them off. Jace’s and Clary’s freak occurence of a blood type, one of the most lethal of demon venoms -. Ordinarily Jace could afford to donate at least 3 liters of blood before his replenisher rune started showing the strain, but Isabelle couldn’t rely even on _that_ , not with the way he and Alec were still frayed; they still hadn’t talked since that disastrous fight the day of her trial.

She could draw whatever possible from Jace and hope the Mundane drugs and some oxygen would keep Clary afloat long enough for the blood exchange to kick in. That had only a low chance to work, but it posed no risk for Jace. The other option would give Clary even odds, but Isabelle wouldn’t do it unless she could give Jace better odds than that.

She removed her hands and opened her eyes. Jace was right where he’d been, and staring at her intently: he too had to remember what she’d explained the last time they faced this dilemma, the night he’d brought Clary in. “Hands on the Sword,” she warned him, a Shadowhunter idiom. “Is Alec _that_ angry?” _Enough to let you die_ , she meant, but couldn’t bring herself to say, even under this duress; it was unthinkable she even had to ask this - or that Jace had to actually _consider_.

“No. He could’ve -” Jace gestured near his throat “- and he didn’t.”

Isabelle breathed out then turned her head to look for Alec. She found him across the infirmary, in a chair by the beds that had the two warlocks. He had a blanket across his lap and a mug of something steaming in his hands but overall, he looked better than she expected. Jace was the powerhouse of the two, anyway; from Alec, she needed his sheer bone-headed stubbornness. Everything else she needed was in the bottom drawer, except for: “Hodge!”

“Get some fluids in Clary,” she told him soon as he materialized by her side; she was still rummaging through the drawer. “Replacement up to one bag if her pulse’s good, else - addition. _Hold_ that until I get a central line in. Draw from Jace until his replenisher rune starts showing it. _No more_.” She glanced up at Jace, who didn’t even raise his arms, only nodded: he knew what the risks were. They needed his strength even more than the blood. Isabelle turned her attention back to Hodge. “Then get Alec anything he can benefit from, and I mean _anything._ And don’t,” she added as she straightened herself up, arms full of tubing, “ask if I’m sure of what I’m doing. I am.”

Her hands didn’t shake as she inserted the central line, then checked and double-checked the connections leading to and from the exchange syringe. There was no room for either mistakes or delay; she couldn’t rush, and she couldn’t afford to lose time. The cocktail Isabelle had injected Clary with couldn’t reverse the poisoning; all it did was buy them a few precious minutes.

Jace was fresh, at least as much as a Shadowhunter warrior ever got: it’s been a week since his last major injury. Isabelle could only hope he’d be truthful with Hodge, because he was going to need that strength: once she opened the syringe, Clary’s poisoned blood would flow into Jace’s veins, and his clean blood into hers. Clary’s runes had already neutralized some of it; a tiny bit more, they deliberately bled out of her. Either Jace had the strength to neutralize the rest of it - or, failing that, to hold on long enough for Clary to start fighting again - or they’d both die.

“Hodge said you need me. What’s going on?”

Isabelle turned her head. Alec was still paler than she liked, but his lips had a good colour to them and his eyes were clear. He was standing unassisted, too, and stable on his feet. It was a fair guess Hodge had handed him the amphetamines and Alec hadn’t asked any questions; Isabelle had all but told Hodge to do that. Alec would be paying for that later, but with lives at the balance the rest was an afterthought.

Isabelle pointed at the empty bed on Jace’s other side. “Sit. Keep Jace’s runes going until they quit.”

Alec sat at directed. At Isabelle’s next words his eyes skipped beyond Jace, to Clary. “It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have left her -”

“You didn’t leave her,” Jace said, irritably.

Isabelle cut them both off. “Quiet. Later.” She turned to Alec. “Pain takes strength to fight. If you think it better Jace get some relief, _call me._ ”

“Understood,” Alec said. Like her, he ignored Jace’s scowl.

Isabelle opened the syringe. The effect was immediate, if subtle: the poison affected Jace as soon as Clary’s blood entered his system, but his only response was a hissed intake of breath. Alec moved as quickly, activating one healing rune after the other.

Isabelle watched them for a few more moments, then strode to the other side of the infirmary to check on the warlocks. Catarina Loss had already left. Pity; Isabelle’d been looking forward to meeting the single best healer in the world - but not enough to _not_ wish that it would be a while before another opportunity occurred.

It looked like Fell was going to make it after all: he had a line in his arm and a mask on his face, the pallor of which indicated shock - but the wound on his neck was uninfected and neatly stitched, and he was still breathing. In the bed next to him, Magnus didn’t look much better: he had no oxygen mask or visible injuries, but his complexion was ashen and the yielding softness of his body indicated he was likely unconscious or else sleeping the sleep of the utterly fatigued.

Hodge popped up at her shoulder. “She wouldn’t take payment,” he said quietly.

“It said so in her file,” Isabelle replied _soto voce_. Loss was known for that - it was the reason Isabelle hadn’t hesitated about demanding her presence, earlier. Hodge huffed and shook his head, clearly finding Loss’s behavior suspicious. Isabelle ignored that; Shadowhunter-on-Downworlder bigotry was hardly a Circle invention. “What’s up with Magnus?”

“Exhausted himself halfway to death keeping Fell alive long enough for Loss to get to him, according to her. Enough to get hypothermia, if you’d believe.”

“Well, evidently you dug up the thermal blankets you and my mom told me to _not buy_ , so…”

“Don’t sound so smug.”

“I’m entitled.”

“Anyway, it was the only way to get your brother to pay attention to anything - or anyone - _else_.”

“My brother,” Isabelle repeated skeptically. “Same one who avoided this whole _floor_ whenever Magnus was here?”

Hodge shook his head. “Looks like he changed his mind.”

Isabelle glanced behind her. Alec was bent over Jace, drawing runes and murmuring encouragement. Everything seemed exactly as it should be, but - what was it that Alec had said, earlier? _I shouldn’t have left Clary._ Suspicion formed in the pit of Isabelle’s stomach, hissing and burning like demon ichor. She couldn’t let anyone catch so much as a whiff of it - and Hodge more than most. Lucky her, that she was experienced in mixing friendship with interrogation and so an excellent liar.

Lightly, Isabelle said: “Thank the Angel he does that sometimes.”

 


	4. Ace of Wands (Jace)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Root of the Power of Fire. Ambition, initiative, renewal. Reversed: disinhibition or over-inhibition, self-doubt, fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Advisory.** This is the chapter the suicidality tag is for, guys, and that's not even the most fucked-up thing here. Please practice due caution.

Jace couldn’t remember the last time had to _think_ to predict Alec’s move, had to rely on his _face_ to know his emotions. It used to be that nothing Alec did could’ve surprised Jace. It’s barely been two weeks since, but already it felt like another lifetime.

Alec was at his door.

Jace hadn’t known he was coming, hadn’t known it was _Alec_ until he turned his head to see who it was who’d opened his door unannounced. How could anything be real, if he couldn’t know Alec? The utter, wretched helplessness of it turned Jace’s thoughts to dust and ashes.

Alec closed the door behind him.

Alec didn’t step in.

Alec said: “I’m still angry.”

 

* * *

 

_Day of the Trial_

The look on Alec’s face as he all but _bounded_ into the infirmary was almost enough to make Jace regret the choices he’d made over the past couple of days. The forces that shaped the situation hadn’t changed - allowing the Fae knight to be tortured or killed was _still_ the wrong thing to do - but Jace wasn’t sure he’d’ve found the strength to do what was right, had he known how things would turn out.

Had he known _who_ had taught him that to love was to destroy.

He knew what Alec had done without having to ask; he’d seen the Institute’s infirmary through Alec’s eyes as Alec had seen the Seelie forest through his; he’d felt their Bond being bled, used to power that trace. Every second since felt as if _he_ was bleeding his life out. The world seemed greyer somehow, distant, unreal. Jace wasn’t sure what it would take to restore the Bond, but in the meantime just having Alec in his sight was a relief already, the pain and tension of his mind and body melting away like dirt and caked blood under warm water and gentle fingers.

Except Alec stopped, expression flattened into a blank mask. It occurred to Jace that though he could feel Alec _there_ , he had no idea what his parabatai was feeling.

That was more helplessness than Jace could deal with. He pushed it away before it penetrated all the way through and reached for the first thing that came to mind and could, maybe, pacify Alec. “Clary gave the Cup to Lydia, Hodge should be escorting her -”

Wrong thing to say.

Alec said “I know” and turned around, clearly intent on walking away.

“That’s it?” The words slipped from Jace’s lips of their own accord.

At least they were enough to stop Alec from leaving, if not to turn around. His voice was flat as he said: “I don’t want to get into it.”

That was unacceptable. “Well, I do! You almost _killed_ me, tracking through our Bond like that -”

“ _You_ tried to kill _me!_ ” Alec yelled as he turned back and stepped up.

“As I recall, you’re the one who held a sword to _my_ throat!”

“And who brought us to that?”

“I don’t know, which of us was sending an innocent to be tortured -”

“That was not -”

“I’m trying to save you from yourself!” Jace’s hand nearly brushed against Alec’s arm as he threw his arms up. It brought him just a little bit closer to the edge. He was going to snap; he had no control over it, over anything, and no idea what would happen.

“Everything you do is for a higher purpose.” Alec stepped away. The disgust on his face made no sense to Jace.

“Of course it is! Alec, come on - we’re Shadowhunters, that’s what we’re _for_.” Wrong step. Jace didn’t understand why, but he knew he’d just said the wrong thing - said the wrong thing, _again_ \- and that pushed Alec further away.

“Do you even realize who you sound like?”

“What -”

“Is that why you almost gave the Cup to Valentine?”

_Come with me, son._

The memory of what’d happened hit Jace vividly, viscerally, truer than where he _thought_ and he was and what he _thought_ was happening. Instead, he was still at that abandoned hospital, trapped inside his body; fighting off the instinct, the _yearning_ to say _Yes, Dad; I will,_ and no longer sure what his reason for fighting was.

Alec’s voice smashed that moment like a descending backhand hitting the jut of a jaw. “You _stay_ out of it!”

Alec’s raised voice was sudden, and Jace was too disoriented; it took him far too long to realize his parabatai wasn’t shouting at Valentine - that his father wasn’t _there_ , that he wasn’t - but rather at Clary. Had Clary said anything? What _else_ had he missed?

_Useless, weak, self-centered..._

Alec’s eyes caught Jace’s, shutting down the litany of his useless self-loathing. “This is not about her. This is about _you._ And now,” Alec paused to compose himself, as if being near Jace was more than he could bare, “if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to tell _my_ sister she still has a future.”

Jace would’ve run after him, if not for that final verbal slap. Would’ve gone after his parabatai, would’ve said - anything; anything, if it could change Alec’s mind, if it could make him turn back - but there was no such thing, nothing Jace could do to bring Alec back. Alec had made that plenty clear.

Alec walked away, and all Jace had left was a ghost.

 

* * *

 

He took a shower as a matter of discipline, not because he wanted to or thought it would help. He came out to find the second-worst possible person sitting on his bed - and of course he’d neglected to put clothes out.

He didn’t need to deal with hi - _Isabelle,_ and he definitely didn’t need to do it clad in nothing but a towel.

“You should leave.”

“Hello to you, too.”

“I mean it.”

“What got into you?”

“Get out.” Having eyed the distance to the closet, Jace decided he could make it there - even if, knowing Izzy, he’d sooner successfully duck back into the shower than she’d let him change behind the minimal privacy of the closet door. But if he got _real_ lucky, she just might take the hint and _leave._

He forgot to account for one thing: going for the closet halved the distance between them, and Izzy had good eyes.

“What’s that on your neck? Did you get injured?”

“Back off.”

She didn’t even bother giving him a shit look for that, just pushed herself off the bed and marched purposefully towards him. “That’s a demon injury, if I can still see -”

“I said, back off!”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing wrong with me, it’s _your_ brother who’ll flip out if he saw us talking.”

“Why would Alec - did you just call him _my_ brother?”

Jace needed this conversation to _end_ , but Isabelle was way too close and not about to go anywhere. She just went on: “What’d he do?”

“Go _away_.”

“Jace…” She grabbed his wrist.

He twisted out of her grip, pulled away, arms instinctively pulled in - crossed at the wrist and close to his chest, in a reminder to himself to _not_ hit her, _not_ push back -

Something flickered across Izzy’s face. Her voice, too, was different as she said: “Okay,” then stepped out and closed the door behind her.

Jace picked the towel up by force of habit - and _how_ did he hate his childhood habits, now - and didn’t bother to do more than toss it through the open bathroom door. Or tried to: his hands shook too much.

Fuck neatness, he decided as he sled down to the floor, back against the solid wood. Fuck _everything_.

 

* * *

 

Maybe if he hadn’t let the Institute become home, if it’d remained just a place he slept at, then maybe it wouldn’t’ve made him sick to his stomach to scan the hallways as he would on patrol. On the other hand, maybe then he’d’ve been taken in by the way nothing felt quite real and attacked a wall - or a fellow Shadowhunter - to try and get through a glamour that wasn’t there.

Alec had to be avoiding him; there was no other explanation. Isabelle said it was just the wedding preparations taking up all of Alec’s time; maybe she even believed it, but Jace still wasn’t going to bet anything of importance against her ability to lie. Jace thought if it really had been just the wedding then he’d’ve been glued at Alec’s side where he belonged, but what he thought didn’t matter: there was work to do, and thinking about things he couldn’t change wasn’t going to get it done.

Clary was definitely avoiding him, though. She had no shortage of instructors, tutors and sparring partners; he’d been monopolizing her before. Now that the truth of him was out - well, it didn’t make anyone want to test themselves against him, see what he could do. They already knew. Clary was a novelty, though, and a novelty that wasn’t out to get them was a rarity for Shadowhunters.

And if anyone who wasn’t busy doting on Clary was busy with wedding preparations - then well, that just meant more work for Jace. Demons didn’t take the week off for a wedding, and they didn’t run because Valentine was back in town. He couldn’t afford to get distracted. The life that’s been before Clary went on.

So long as there was work to do, he was fine. When there wasn’t - well, there always was. Eating was a job that needed to be done, too, if he were to have the strength to hunt; adequate sleep was a necessity of fighting vigor, too, so Jace tore his mind away from whatever useless tracks it turned to and forced it empty and blank instead. He needed the sleep more than he used to: he was growing weak, unfocused and too easily startled. He wasn’t healing as well, either. He couldn’t afford to be this fatigued, and sleep was one thing he could control.

It wasn’t enough. Hodge cornered him for a conversation as comfortable as barefoot striding across broken glass, and only let go when he became convinced Jace was doing his best - but not because that was good enough: the next morning, Hodge gave him a bottle of pills, a stack of chocolate bars and very clear instructions. The Mundie drug worked as promised. It felt good to have his head be clear again - too good; Jace neglected to eat the dark chocolate soon as the influence began to wear off, and ended up staring at his sword for hours like a _coward_ , until Hell wore off and he regained his senses.

Each morning, Jace woke up to a world that felt a little less real that it had before; and each time, it was harder to remember just why he was fighting for it at all.

 

* * *

 

He should’ve noticed Alec approach. Turns out, he couldn’t keep himself together even well enough for desk work.

“Magnus!” Lydia’s grin was nearly wider than her face. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“That was the point,” Magnus replied. He sounded about as enthusiastic as Jace felt.

“What’s going on?” Lydia asked.

The brightness in her voice had to be fake, but - Jace didn’t have the time to think about that. He was trying to find a safe spot in middle distance to rest his eyes on; between Hodge and Magnus was the worst place to be standing for that, so Jace used the time while Clary explained to reposition himself to the warlock’s left.

“How can I help?” Alec asked, quickly; he was looking at Magnus.

“We’re just recovering a warlock, Alec,” Jace said. “We got this covered.”

“Besides, from what Magnus says, a large party will just make this harder,” Hodge said.

“In that case, who do you recommend?” Lydia asked - this time, in her Director voice.

“ _Excuse_ me,” Jace interrupted - or attempted to; Hodge ignored him.

“Honestly, I’d say leave the half-trained kid behind -”

“Hey!” Clary protested.

“- but it _is_ her mother. And Alec _is_ scheduled to get married tomorrow, so…”

Lydia cut him off. “So, that shouldn’t matter. Sorry, Alec.”

“Shouldn’t I apologize to you?”

“For being a first-rate Shadowhunter? I don’t think so.”

Lydia smiled as she said that. It wasn’t her usual smile, though, the big and bright one she threw around like a searchlight. This smile was softer, and not as wide; more human, somehow. For the first time, it occurred to Jace she could be genuinely fond of Alec, rather than the marriage being purely for power; he remembered, suddenly, what Izzy had told him - that the Inquisitor disapproved of Lydia’s engagement to Alec, that Lydia was willing to - _no_ , that Lydia _had_ thrown the trial, had refused to obey one more unjust order.

It was as if he was seeing Lydia for the first time. Was this the woman Alec has seen all along? Had Jace reacted - like Alec had to Clary? Except - Jace realized, gut twisting with shame - Alec may have well been right on that matter; Clary was his _sister_ , and he -

“Jace?”

He startled; Hodge was standing next to his elbow, wearing the sort of neutral expression that really meant _concerned._ Everyone else had already dispersed; Jace missed their leaving.

Having gotten Jace’s attention, Hodge continued. “You’re lucky no one expects you to be social; go get some sleep, Jace.”

“I sleep fine.”

“Then go get whatever it is you need to do to not be sleeping with your eyes wide open. Like talk to your parabatai, maybe.”

“If Alec’ll want to talk, we’ll talk.”

“That’ll be a first.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You caring what Alec does or doesn’t want. Never stopped you before, has it?”

 _How dare you,_ Jace wanted to say; the words were already on the tip of his tongue. Except Hodge was right: that’s how they got in this predicament in the first place - by Jace disregarding what Alec wanted, pushing his parabatai to trace him through their Bond. By -

When was the last time Jace made Alec’s shoulders relax, the way Lydia just did? He couldn’t remember; all that came to mind was Alec complaining of the trouble Jace was causing, his lack of care for consequences which Alec would be the one to bear.

“Then maybe I should.”

“Maybe you should, what?” Hodge asked.

“Care what Alec wants,” Jace said, then got himself out of there before Hodge would dig further.

The wedding would be the next day. There wasn’t a lot of time for Jace to make up his mind.

 

* * *

 

He was working at one of the stations when a portal opened up in the middle of the ops floor. There was hardly any time for Jace - let alone anyone else - to reach for their steles, let alone a weapon, before a familiar face stuck their head through.

“Shax demons!” Clary called out, then disappeared.

 _Shax._ The word banished the fog from Jace’s mind as if it’s never been. Clary was facing down a pack of shax demons. _Alec_ was. Killing shax was pointless - they’d keep coming until they got their target - but for whatever reason, Alec and Clary weren’t coming through the portal; that meant they had some unfinished business that was worth risking shax on the hunt for, and that - in turn - meant they needed backup, and they needed it _fast._

Jace processed all that in a split second; when he all but vaulted over to weapons storage, hardly an instant later, he’d already reviewed the list of everyone at the Institute and was working through team lineups - the quick-sketch of which he rearranged as he caught sight of Lydia, who’d cut through the queue that formed behind him. Her face was hard and cold with fury.

She said: “You’re going to tell me I should stay behind, aren’t you.”

That dissipated Jace’s last shred of doubt; he handed her a blade. “No.”

As the Head of the Institute, Lydia _should_ refrain from that sort of a risk, but - Jace had heard about her first engagement, what became of it; he was there to see her personally assign this mission. He understood: Lydia needed to do this, too.

Her pupils widened; then she blinked, and she was an iron-cold warrior, again.

She barked out orders as the two of them marched down to the portal, putting the ops floor to order. There was no point going through; none of them had been to Ragnor Fell’s cottage, none of them had any idea what it even looked like - if that was even where Alec and Clary still were. They’d have to wait for Clary or Alec - or Bane - to reach through again; there was no choice

On the bright side, they had the time to hash out some tactics.

Then Alec’s hand shot through and Jace grabbed it and threw his other hand behind for Lydia to catch. The first thing he noticed after he stepped through - to what indeed looked like a rustic, book-laden dwelling - was the sheer _number_ of the fucking shax. Then he saw Magnus Bane: on his knees, shaking with effort, left hand thrown out to the side keep the portal open and the right pressed against another warlock’s chest, whose horns marked him as Ragnor Fell. Alec was kneeling next to Magnus, both his hands now over Magnus’s right, and Jace didn’t need to ask to know Alec was gifting Magnus his strength once again.

The time it took Jace to notice all that was the time it took for him to destroy three shax demons, and for two more Shadowhunters to step through on Lydia’s heel.

No sight of Clary.

“Go!” Lydia shouted.

Jace shot out, unhesitating: the shax concentrated their effort around Alec and Magnus - and Fell - but the look on Lydia’s face was all the reassurance Jace needed.

If Clary was willing to leave the others behind to do whatever she was doing, under Shax attack, Jace would consider it lucky if he only needed to physically carry her away rather than knock her right out.

She was nowhere on the ground floor that he could see; Jace leaped up the stairs, taking them three or five at a time, and caught Clary just as she was about to tumble down: she had a poisoned gash up her arm and another one on her thigh, and was only barely conscious. She also had the most brilliant smile across her face, which Jace didn’t have the time to fathom or appreciate; he was more concerned with getting the two of them downstairs and to the portal without sustaining any more injuries or failing that, any more _demonic_ injuries; his right ankle didn’t appreciate taking the full of both his and Clary’s weight as he landed on the ground floor - having vaulted over the banister, Clary slung over his shoulders - then kicked at a shax and bolted straight for the portal.

Whether it was Alec, Bane or Fell that the demons were after, two of them popped up in puffs of acrid smoke for each one that Lydia, Crystabel or Laney dispatched; anything but going through the portal was suicide.

Lydia grabbed Magnus’s jacket with both her hands and hauled him to his feet: only then did Alec get a fucking move on - and Lydia had to quickly insert herself between the two men and under Alec’s elbow, because Alec had nowhere near enough strength left to carry both himself and Fell. Still he stumbled, and Jace was just in time to catch him then walk backwards through the portal, Lydia dragging Magnus with her and Laney and Crystabel bringing out the rear, also walking backwards as they fended off the entire damned shax pack.

The sight of Izzy in full field-medic mode dominating the ops floor was the single most blessed thing Jace had ever seen.

He didn’t catch what it was that she shouted before hitting up what was - evidently - her celerity rune; it didn’t matter. She was by his side soon as he laid Clary down, sliding a syringe into a vein.

Shax venom. Two penetrating injuries. How long -

Izzy grabbed and dragged him even as she yelled “Lydia, get over here!”

The red marking on the supply chest Izzy headed for answered the question Jace had no time to ask: Clary was going to need most or all of her blood replaced, and she’d need a better quality match than Mundie blood could give if she were to survive. He knew this protocol, they’d been through it the last time he brought in an unconscious Clary, the night he’d only just _met_ her -

That other night leaped up to swallow him, but Jace couldn’t afford to; Izzy was locked on finding the equipment she needed, and someone had to explain blood typing to Lydia. He and Clary were a match, but that wasn't going to be good nough; last time they needed all he could give and then most of Izzy’s Mundie-blood stash, which she hadn’t had the time to restock -

_Fuck._

Jace turned his mind away from that and cross-matched Lydia and himself instead. The profanity escaped him anyhow as he saw the telltale clotting; Lydia didn’t need to ask what that meant.

Izzy’s expression, as she turned back from Clary’s bed, mirrored his - then turned darker as she noticed the same thing as he, and darker yet as she saw the sample for herself.

She covered her face with her hands.

It seemed a small eternity before she uncovered her face but when she did, her eyes were as clear and hard and sharp as a blade.

She said: “Hands on the Sword: is Alec _that_ angry?”

 _Yes_ , Jace was about to say: Alec didn’t need him, was acting as if he was just waiting for the opportunity - But what came out was: “No.”

It didn’t feel as if he was the one talking; it may as well were someone else using his voice to say, “He could’ve -” then his hand to mimic the slashing motion of a blade at his throat before concluding: “- and he didn’t.”

The Gate to Silent City. Alec could’ve killed him, then, and didn’t. But it’s been almost two weeks, Alec could’ve changed his mind since, could’ve -

Izzy believed what Jace’s voice said, though. “Hodge!” She yelled, waited absolutely still as he jogged over, then dropped into a crouch to dig through the supplies as she dictated orders, rapid-fire.

“Get some fluids in Clary. Replacement up to one bag if her pulse’s good, else - addition. _Hold_ that until I get a central line in. Draw from Jace until his replenisher rune starts showing it. _No more_.” Only then did she glance up at Jace, who nodded.

This was probably going to kill him. That was fine, so long as Alec and Clary came out of it all right. He sat on the bed next to Clary’s, let Hodge draw his blood, and called it on the mark Izzy ordered; all of his blood couldn’t save Clary, now - it was all of _him_ that she needed.

He hardly even noticed as Izzy pierced the big vein in his shoulder and slid in the catheter.

“Hodge said you need me. What’s going on?”

 _Alec._ Jace’s lungs seized and locked up. His parabatai was right there, and he couldn’t even feel him. Jace struggled to breathe. That was - taking in shax poison straight to the vein was going to be a _relief_ , after that.

He must’ve missed part of the conversation, because Alec was looking at Clary, pain written on his face. “It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have left her -”

Jace cut him off. “You didn’t leave her.”

Izzy shut them both up. “Quiet. Later. Pain takes strength to fight; you think it better Jace get some relief,” she told Alec, “ _call me._ ”

“Understood,” he replied.

He could deal with _pain._ That must’ve been why Izzy made it an issue of Clary’s safety, rather than his comfort.

Isabelle opened the valve.

It felt as if acid was pouring into his blood, if the acid was on fire; and this was _after_ Clary’s runes neutralized some of the venom? Jace hissed, then tried to keep his muscles loose; some things, struggle only ever made worse. Alec redrew Jace’s runes one by one then started the sequence again, but the pain didn’t abate; it was only getting worse.

It was going to be a _really_ long morning.

 

* * *

 

Alec wasn’t there when he woke up. Clary was, vampire-pale but warm and breathing. She was curled up in Jace’s arms; their beds had been moved together at some point after Jace had passed out. He gently untangled them, turned over, and discovered the bed on his other side - the one where Alec had sat - had been pushed flush against his, too - but Alec was no longer there.

The crumpled sheets and pillow spoke to Alec having been there; they testified he’d laid down at some point, as close to Jace as Clary had been.

Alec _had_ been there. He’d kept cycling through Jace’s healing runes, murmured encouragement, swore Jace to not die.

Jace didn’t die. But Alec wasn’t there.

 

* * *

 

He must’ve been still out from blood-loss and poison, because the first thing Jace did when he got back to his room was to pull out his backup blade. He’d thought to quietly exit, when Hodge reminded him what it meant, to care. But things changed, since: he promised Alec he wasn’t going to die.

Their Bond was still numb, though, and Jace had no idea what to _do._

The door to his room opened. Jace turned his head, and saw Alec there.

Jace’s mouth dried up.

It felt like another lifetime in which _nothing_ Alec did or didn’t do could’ve surprised him. He’d forgotten what it was even like, for Alec and him to not know each other’s thoughts as well as their own - for the difference to mean next to nothing. It’s been years since the last time Jace had to rely on Alec’s face to know his emotions - and there he was, dumbstruck and frozen by Alec, his parabatai, being at his _door._ The utter, wretched helplessness of it turned his thoughts to ashes and dust.

Alec closed the door behind him.

Alec didn’t step in.

Alec said: “I’m still angry.”

The room spun as if he’d taken a blow to the head. What did that even _mean_ , if Alec didn’t want him to leave but was _still angry_ -

Alec spoke again. It seemed like a small eternity before Jace could process the words, understand what they _meant._

“But you’re still my parabatai. So.”

“I never meant to hurt you.” The words tumbled out so quickly as to be intelligible; Jace made a futile attempt to _breathe_ , then repeated them, more slowly. He had to close his eyes to be able to do even that - and then had to look at the floor to be able to continue speaking at all. “I’d _never._ I - Submitting an innocent for torture, that’s wrong. It’s not what Shadowhunters are for, it’s not what we should stand for. I believe that. I still do. But I never - if I realized how much it’d hurt you…” Jace faltered. _Would_ he’d chosen differently? What would he’d done, if he knew how it would pan out?

 _To love is to destroy,_ whispered a voice Jace both hated and loved.

Jace closed his eyes, hugged his elbows; put the effort in - _chose_ to allow himself the moment of vulnerability. It was an easy price to pay, to spite his father - or at least, the internalized image of him. The gesture wasn’t entirely useless; it allowed Jace the only moment of rest he’s had since - a while.

Face still turned downwards, he opened his eyes. “I’d never do something, _anything_ I knew would hurt you. Never. Alec, _please…_ ” Jace forced himself to look up at his parabatai. “Please believe me.” _Alec, my brother, my parabatai…_ But the words came with the memory of Alec’s sword at his throat. The memory of -

Alec’s voice came as if from a great distance, even though he approached Jace as he spoke. “I know. I know you didn’t. But - we still made the choices we did, both of us, and I don’t know -”

Comprehension struck Jace in the space between one heartbeat and another: he couldn’t deny the intimacy of love and ruin, but if he chose to accept it instead, then he could choose which way the destruction would go, too, and what form it would take. He wasn’t entirely helpless. He couldn’t live without Alec; that was an absolute; yet it was so difficult to get Alec to _get_ that, to explain to him just what Jace would do -

No way to do that, with their Bond so gossamer. No way but one. And if that was what Alec wanted, that’s what Jace would choose.

He leaned forward, closed the rest of the distance between them, and pressed his lips to Alec's.

Alec stiffened, then grabbed Jace by both shoulders and pulled him off. He didn’t let go, though, and he didn’t push Jace _away_ either.

“The hell was that?” he demanded, angry, then suddenly _changed_ and said, very softly, “Jace,” and “You’re shaking.”

He was. He wouldn’t have known, if Alec’s hands didn’t rest against his upper arms. He was shaking, possibly cold, and he couldn’t _think._

Their Bond came back to life without warning, Alec’s emotions taking up all the space that Jace’s had left. He couldn’t resist it, but he instinctively tried to: giving in to their Bond, indulging in it, felt as if he was tainting Alec somehow, tracking mud over his brightness. Alec’s confusion turned to alarm and concern; he pulled Jace in, wrapped him in a hug. “It’s okay,” he said, over and over again. “It’s okay.”

It didn’t matter what Jace was afraid of; Alec was actively pushing emotion across the Bond, flooding Jace with what felt like warmth and laughter on a winter night; like clean blood after a major poisoning, it slowly brought Jace back to life. He laid his head on Alec’s shoulder, stopped resisting the torrent; he didn’t want to, didn’t need to, and resting against Alec he could begin to remember just why that was _._ This was Alec; this was Jace’s parabatai, and as the word regained its meaning, so did everything else.

It was okay, now. He was home.

 


	5. Seven of Swords (Magnus)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trickery. Strategy, concealment. Reversed: exposure, reveal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is your reminder that _it ends well I promise._

There was no pain. Magnus’s limbs felt like lead; his blood was flowing in his veins so slowly he could _feel_ the sluggishness of its movement; and even under the heated blanket, Magnus was cold with exhaustion. Yet, for the first time in more than a week - since he made a particularly stupid decision - he felt no pain. It had nothing to do with Magnus’s own injuries; the past ten days’ constant agony wasn’t his, in body or spirit: it was Alec’s. Which meant - Magnus realized as his mind slowly pulled itself up by the bootstraps out of utter exhaustion - that _Alec_ was no longer in pain.

 _About damn time_ , Magnus thought hazily. He didn’t open his eyes; he was awake enough to remember where he was, and no Shadowhunter Institute was ever truly safe for a warlock. The second Isabelle - or if he was honest with himself, Lydia also - would turn her eyes away, _something_ would happen. It was better to be considered more helpless than he actually was.

Problem was, he also wanted to know what had changed. A skim of Alec’s mind only brought up a sense of satisfaction that seemed to go beyond the expected relief. Magnus was unwilling to dig more deeply; he only scanned the surface of Alec’s mind because he couldn’t block it out any more than he could the contents of his own mind. If Magnus wanted more information, he’d have to either penetrate Alec’s mind, or open his eyes. It wasn’t much of a question.

He opened his eyes. The infirmary was fully lit, harsh artificial light reflecting off too many surfaces, adding to the blurriness of exhaustion. There was no one in his line of sight. Carefully, Magnus turned his pounding head to the one side - and found Ragnor. Relief flooded through him: his best friend made it. Surviving a shax sting to the neck was nothing short of miraculous. Ragnor was pale and ashen, an IV line stuck into his arm, but he was _alive_. Magnus hadn’t been sure if his magic would suffice -

It hadn’t. Of course it hadn’t. Memory hit like ice water: Alec had lent Magnus his strength. He’d let Magnus use everything he had, while they were _surrounded by shax_ trying to get at Ragnor, at the person they were shielding. It was a miracle they’d survived long enough for backup to get there. It was a monumentally stupid thing for Alec to have done - and in all likelihood, it was the reason Ragnor was still alive. Magnus couldn’t help but feel grateful for the contract-bond, for Ragnor’s survival; it made him feel sick with guilt.

He turned his head to the other side, and found Alec. Or, well, the sight of him: Alec was clear across the infirmary, as far away as possible from the two recovering warlocks. Magnus pushed the bitter thought away, or at least tried to; he had other things to think about. Gingerly, he pushed himself up into a sitting position. Alec was laying on his side, facing away from Magnus, and he wanted a better view.

Alec was laying on his side, the big spoon to Jace’s little spoon - or rather, the bigger spoon to Jace’s still-big one - and Jace’s face was very nearly touching Clary’s. The girl was pale as a sheet; a half-healed wound was partially visible from under the Mundane heated blanket, and Magnus had the ill feeling it wasn’t her only injury - or the only infected one: she and Jace were both whiter than even their usual selves. That vampiric pallor told Magnus what it took, to have Clary survive. But if Jace had served as an _in vivo_ haemodialysis machine, how could it be that Alec was in _less_ pain?

Magnus fell back down into the bed. There was only one thing he could think of that could, potentially, be worse than one’s parabatai coming that close to death - and that was the Bond breaking, or coming very near to. He’d known Alec and Jace had difficulties, but he hadn’t _known_ \- hadn’t realized how deep that injury ran. And the pain of it has remained more or less constant -

Guilt convulsed through Magnus as if it was physical sickness: this happened before, _before_ Alec came to stand in Magnus’s living room and said, _I need your help._ This was why Alec had said _Yes,_ why -

Magnus has only made it worse.

 

* * *

 

_A Week Prior_

He might as well have known the attempt to corral the spellbond wouldn’t work as planned. All things considered, Magnus should probably count himself lucky his attempt hadn’t altogether backfired.

He should. He just couldn’t bring himself to. Instead, he found himself hurtling from one pole to the other, either resenting his choice of words or feeling as if it was some kind of a gift. It wasn’t either of those things; he knew that. But making his emotions fall in line with what he knew - that was proving extraordinarily difficult.

 _Go on with your life, however you choose to live it_ , he’d told Alec. Over the past couple of days, Alec had _chosen_ to leave the Institute soon as Magnus arrived to study the potion-spell. Consequently, Magnus opted to quit that study. Which, it seemed, made the other shoe drop: he _had_ given Alec a free pass to visit - issued an invitation that only just fell short of an expectation, if he was honest with himself.

The worst - or the best - part of it wasn’t that the second day Magnus didn’t go to the Institute, Alec came to him. No; it was that Magnus must’ve known, somehow, because he’s spent the better part of the afternoon making shrimp noodles. _Everything you need_ , he’d promised, and that apparently gave him a preternatural sense for just _what_ would scratch the itch Alec’s flavorless choices of nourishment left unscratched.

Magnus hated it, and loved it just as much. He hated the invasiveness of it, how binding and unrelenting it was; and loved that he could tell exactly what would ease one of Alec’s many hurts, or satiate a hunger that - Magnus suspected - Alec no longer noticed was even _there_. Managing these two contradicting emotions was so tasking Magnus barely had time to feel fear - and fear, or at the very least a measure of concern, was warranted: this kind of magic was like the proverbial monkey’s paw.

Yet fear was pushed back as Magnus could _feel_ Alec’s interest peak as he stepped into the loft and got a good whiff of the spices and herbs in the air.

“Over here!” Magnus called from the kitchen.

When Alec entered a moment later, his face bore the unmistakable expression of one who’d only just put aside a heavy burden. Magnus didn’t have it in him to do anything but smile and say: “You’re just in time.”

Where before Alec was the one slow to react externally, having to work through his internal reactions first, now it was Magnus’s turn; instead of Alec replying, he tripped up on Alec’s expectation that Magnus provide a script. Alec, Magnus realized, had no idea what he should do - and for once, was comfortable waiting on Magnus to illustrate.

“Here.” So smoothly the pause was barely noticeable, Magnus ladled up a bit of the dish and offered it to Alec. “Careful, it’s hot.”

“Mm.” Alec made a small, wordless sound around the noodles. Then heat rose in his cheeks and ears; he managed to not cough, though. “In more than one way!”

Magicking most mixed drinks was a finicky business, but a gin and tonic was as simple as all its ingredients existing in the same glass. Tomato juice was simpler and would’ve also done the trick, but Magnus didn’t favor the idea of offering a Shadowhunter something red to drink. The gin would help encourage Alec’s appetite, besides

Alec took a few swallows before he glanced questioningly at Magnus, who waved his hand. “You’ll be fine.” There was a healthy amount of gin in that glass, but alcohol was technically a poison and Shadowhunter metabolism took to it as such; even an inexperienced drinker like Alec would have to work at it to get tipsy, let alone drunk.

Either way, the ice was broken. Uncertainty and apprehension didn’t weigh either of them down as much as they did a short few moments before. And - it was fascinating to Magnus, what difference the moment of attention and humor made in Alec’s state of mind. He remembered, of course, the difference that a nearly-virgin drink and a few lines had made, that night Luke’s been injured; but then Magnus had been observing from the outside, and now he could _feel_ the painful self-awareness and judgement peeling back. It was not unlike thorny vines pulling back from flesh; and as these receded, fatigue followed and poured out like blood from a wound.

It wasn’t good, but it was _better._ It was also familiar territory for Magnus to handle, entertaining someone overworked who needed a distraction from their troubles; in truth, Magnus has been cultivating what others called his hedonism precisely as a defense against the weariness of his own soul.

This, Magnus knew how to do.

 

* * *

 

It was a good thing Magnus was practiced at distracting away from the weariness of the soul, because Alec came by again the day after the next, then the one after. Each time he came bearing a pain Magnus couldn’t find the root of, but could ease the edge of with ease. Each time Alec arrived late at night, after - it was evident to Magnus - another day at the Institute, another raid on some demons; all the time bearing a mask Alec was clearly unfond of - as much as he was unwilling to let the mask go.

Magnus couldn’t stop him; didn’t know how to stop _it_. All he could do was dig at what roots he did find, and hope he’d find a way out of the situation before the day came and Alec would learn - to not injure himself over and over again, to not take on his shoulders a weight that didn’t belong to him; that, Magnus wryly noted to himself - composing another fire message that wouldn’t be replied to even if sent - was a lesson he could do to learn, as well.

A fine pair they made, Alec and him; what good did it do Magnus, that he knew nothing good could come of this? Alec, at least, figured out how to make the most of it, how to find joy even in the dark night of the soul; Magnus always has been too inclined for the dramatic for that.

He could only hope that would be defense enough; and that he’d find a way out of this, before either their luck would run out.

 

* * *

 

Alec’s temper was getting fouler with every second. Eventually, he snapped at Ragnor: “Enough with the warlock games. Can you wake Jocelyn, or not?”

“Not without the Book of the White,” Ragnor replied curtly, scathingly almost. He was being more asocial than even his usual; which made sense, Magnus realized, if he’d actually _read_ all of Magnus’s messages, and just wasn’t sure they were for real - and so he was testing, attempting to see how far the leash went.

Magnus considered the results of that little experiments as Clary asked about the Book and Ragnor explained, not curt as he was with Alec - turning into the apologetic, in fact, as he explained why he was no longer in possession of the Book.

Clary turned on her expressive eyes to her best advantage. “Ragnor, please. I have to get my mom back. Is there any way to trace the Book of the White?”

“Possibly; I have something that can help us - will be but a moment.”

Ragnor hurried upstairs. Alec and Clary glared daggers at each other, prompting Magnus to offer a distraction. “It’s a bit drab, isn’t it?” he asked, looking around disapprovingly.

Neither Shadowhunter got to answer: there was a scream from upstairs, and Ragnor came tumbling over the banister, a shax demon on top of him. The demon never made it to the ground floor; some of Ragnor’s magic hit it, causing it to combust and vanish. A split-second later Ragnor hit the floor, and Magnus realized that his friend hadn’t reacted in time after all: there was a deep, jagged wound across his throat.

Powerful as they otherwise were, warlocks didn’t heal any better than Mundanes. Magnus was on his knees in a heartbeat. He gathered Ragnor up in his arms and promptly began to send power through, not caring much for form or, indeed, for anything but brute magical force. Healing wasn’t his forte; raw power was the only chance -

Alec’s hand brushed his shoulder, gifting more power - Shadowhunter power: and if there was one thing Shadowhunters excelled at more than anyone else, it was survival. A Shadowhunter couldn’t mobilize that power to save another, of course, not on their own; that was Magnus’s role.

Soon as he realized that, Magnus also realized that power wasn’t the only thing pouring in from Alec. There was also an acute awareness of the demon that hurt Ragnor being a shax, and that shax demons hunted in packs and did not stop coming until their purpose was achieved. They couldn’t hope to defend themselves; they had to evacuate. Magnus struggled against that: he needed more time, time to stabilize Ragnor, time to -

Magnus threw his other arm out, dared divert his attention for the excruciatingly long seconds it took to conjure up a portal. There; reinforcements could come to them, now, and Magnus could return his attention to saving his best friend’s life. Ragnor was old, one of the oldest warlocks alive, and even immortals showed their age, even if in minute shifts in power - which, considering the strain Ragnor’s body was struggling under, could mean the difference of life from death. Magnus reached deeper, into levels of magic he ordinarily didn’t access. He had to save Ragnor; the other possibility didn’t bear thinking of. Alec’s attention turned away for a moment and Magnus pulled at it sharply, too lost in the moment to think of anything but Ragnor, and how precarious his injuries were, a shax sting straight to the neck -

Alec returned, both his hands now over Magnus’s. This was better. It was almost enough, Magnus almost could -

Someone hauled Magnus up to his feet none too gently. Someone blonde and small - _Lydia_ , Magnus realized. She pushed herself in between Alec and him - Alec carrying Ragnor - and shoved both of them towards the portal until they stepped through.

Magnus couldn’t spare enough attention to direct the portal; didn’t have enough to spare to even _think_ of that until they were through, and the New York Institute in all its safety materialized around them. Then Magnus collapsed the portal behind them - and promptly collapsed himself, unconscious.

 

* * *

 

He drifted in and out. Catarina was there: she turned his head back, firmly but gently, and talked him down when he woke to the sight of Ragnor in the next bed, pale as the sheets. Hearing her voice was enough; earlier that day he’d protested Ragnor’s inclusion on the list but not Catarina’s, or Tessa’s; if anyone on earth could save Ragnor’s life, Catarina was it. She knew how much Ragnor meant to him, too.

When he awoke properly - more or less so - Catarina wasn’t there. That was not the first thing that occurred to him, though. No, the first thing that occurred to him was that there was no pain - he’d exhausted himself entirely and his body ached with it, but there was no _pain_ , no _true_ pain. He hadn’t known that in over a week, since the day of Isabelle’s trial, since Alec…

Alec was at peace. For the first time, Alec was at _peace_ , truly resting - and he needed it badly; the hours he’d spent with Magnus the past week he ought to have spent sleeping; and pain alone was exhausting, besides. Even through his own exhaustion, Magnus was quite curious to know what had changed - but if he wanted to know he had to either reach into Alec’s mind or else betray that he was awake, and open his eyes.

It was a no brainer. Magnus opened his eyes.

The infirmary was fully lit, harsh artificial light reflecting off too many surfaces and giving him a headache. There was no one there that Magnus could see - curious, with himself and, presumably, Ragnor also, present in an Institute so recently breached.

With extreme care, Magnus turned his head to the side where Ragnor had been, earlier. He was still there: pale and ashen, with an IV line stuck into his arm, but _there,_ alive. Magnus hadn’t truly believed his magic would suffice -

It hadn’t, of course. The memory of what had happened hit like ice water. It made bile rise in Magnus’s throat. There was no way, _no way_ a trained Shadowhunter like Alec had lent all his strength to anyone, let alone a _warlock_ , in the middle of _hunting shax_ \- not of his volition, never. Magnus must’ve pulled on him before he realized, or else Alec had reacted to the Bond - these days later, Magnus still had no idea how Alec experienced it.

Ragnor was alive because of the spellbond; it made Magnus sick with guilt.

He turned his head to the other side, and found Alec - or rather, the sight of him. Alec was clear across the infirmary, as far away as possible from the two recovering warlocks. Now that, Magnus thought, was a whole lot more like normal Shadowhunter practice. He pushed the thought away and tried to sit up, at least a little; Alec was laying on his side, facing away, and Magnus wanted a better view. More to the point, he wanted to know what has _finally_ made the neverending pain in Alec’s mind go away.

Alec was spooning Jace, and Jace’s face was very nearly touching Clary’s. The girl was pale as a sheet, a half-healed shax wound visible on her shoulder. Jace didn’t look a whole lot better, and in a flash of insight, Magnus realized what must’ve happened - what it took, for both Jace and Clary to still be alive; why Alec clung to Jace so.

But if this, now, was how Alec felt _better_ \- what had things been like _before?_ How could a parabatai pair deteriorate so, without the Bond snapping?

Magnus fell back down into the bed; the pain was all his, now. Guilt cut through his body, making his exhausted muscles shake as if it were a physical illness. He’d known Alec and Jace had difficulties, but he hadn’t _known_ \- hadn’t realized - hadn’t let himself figure it out, that this was how and why Alec had said _Yes_ , the reason Alec had needed _something_ so badly he would take even _that_ -

“Easy, there.” Someone had approached while Magnus was struggling to not hyperventilate; Hodge Starkweather had. “Breathe. Your other friend was quite worried about you.”

“Catarina?” Magnus managed.

“Yes. You’d be happy to know your friend Ragnor’s going to live. Amazingly enough.”

Magnus held on to one full breath, and let out: “Don’t sound so disappointed,” in one long, breathy exhale.

“Actually, everyone’s going to live today,” Hodge continued as if he didn’t hear a word Magnus said. Then his expression changed, became sharper, darker almost. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, warlock. But I raised those kids more than their parents did. And I promise you, if you hurt any of them, in any way…” Hodge didn’t finish the sentence, not verbally; but he touched the rune at the base of his neck - the Circle rune.

“I assure you,” Magnus breathed out, paused, then continued: “I have no such attentions.”

“You know what Mundanes say about intentions, warlock?” Hodge asked, conversationally. “But for the meantime,” he smiled, an oddly normal-looking expression on his face, “let me get you some water. The current director” - he placed a slight emphasis on the word _current_ \- “believes in diplomacy.”

Magnus ignored Hodge’s words or his departure; instead, he turned to look at Ragnor. He couldn’t regret Ragnor’s survival, couldn’t regret anything that had enabled it - and that just made him feel sicker and more weary. Valentine’s former lackey hit close to home, more than he knew - but not, perhaps, closer than he suspected.

Either way, Magnus was out of time - _Alec_ was. He had to find a way out of this, for both their sakes. The bad news was - well, that they were even in this situation. The good news was that now that Magnus understood how things had gone wrong - at least, better than he understood before - he also knew how to fix things.

He knew how to undo the spellbond.

 

* * *

 

Magnus didn’t so much fall back asleep as drifted into a twilight state, neither fully awake or truly asleep; he was too exhausted for the former, and far too anxious for the latter. Footsteps or human voices near his bed called him nearer to wakefulness a few times: Lydia, checking that her orders were being carried out; Isabelle, checking in on how her patients were doing; and finally, Alec.

For Alec, Magnus dragged himself the rest of the way to wakefulness, and opened his eyes.

Alec blinked. “Sorry; I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“You didn’t,” Magnus replied. It was true enough. It also gave him the second he needed to scan the infirmary and determine there was no one else in sight. At least, no one who was clearly awake and in range to overhear.

Alec spoke first, though. “Will you sleep at your place? Because grey isn’t your colour.”

That was positively endearing. Magnus smiled. “Yours either.” After a moment, he added: “I’m sorry about Clary.”

Alec blinked again, and bit back: “Are you sorry your friend survived?”

“No,” Magnus admitted. “But…”

Alec cut him off. “No buts. I’m not sorry about your friend either,” he added, trying for a softer voice. “We made it. Everyone made it.”

Magnus closed his eyes. He couldn’t let himself treasure the sentiment. He couldn’t _know_ what was truly Alec, and what was… “We need to talk. About Jace.”

“Not now,” Alec said.

“ _You_ need to talk,” Magnus replied, trying to get the point through without pushing Alec too hard.

It took Alec a long moment to speak again and when he did, he no longer sounded angry. “Right now, I need to sleep.”

That was good enough. Magnus let his eyes closed again. From the safety of the darkness behind his eyelids, he dared broach the next issue. “We also need to talk.”

“Do you _have_ to push?” Alec snapped back.

That… Alec hadn’t been that impatient, that angry, in all the ten long days since Isabelle’s trial. Possibly, this was a good thing. “No,” Magnus replied; he didn’t have to push, but he was afraid. “I’m Sorry,” he added. Sorry for pushing; sorry for the whole affair.

Alec looked away; even when he looked back, he didn’t say anything. Instead, he pushed himself up, and left.

 


	6. Eight of Cups (Alec)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abandoned Success. Search, bittersweet progress, transformation. Reversed: loss of hope, sacrificing the future for the present.

Two days: that was how long Alec lasted before he found himself standing across the street from Magnus’s, looking up at the light at the top and thinking about what might happen, once he crosses the invisible threshold of the wards. Two days was more than he’d hoped, and less than he expected; it was what it was, Alec told himself, and what wasn’t just didn’t matter.

There wasn’t much comfort in the thought. There wasn’t much comfort in anything: side effect of what had gone down between Jace and him. His body was used to relying on the parabatai Bond for strength, for passion, for clarity. With the Bond this disturbed it was as if everything had gone dark: food had no flavor, sleep didn’t refresh - and that was if he’d managed to fall asleep at all - and nothing _felt_ at if it had a point. It didn’t matter if Alec knew that wasn’t true; without the parabatai Bond, it was as if the heart was taken out from the world.

That’s what Alec was doing at a street corner so late at night that it was early, and every last Shadowhunter had already returned to the Institute from their missions, more or less whole. He wasn’t ready to let go of his pride and what he believed in and make good with Jace, but he couldn’t go on like this, either. He needed an alternative and by some stroke of luck, he had one.

He’s been replaying it in his mind for nearly the whole two days: the moment when Magnus stepped inside the Institute’s wards. It hit Alec hard and blinded him both times it’d happened, but - he’d gotten the better of Hodge that first day, in that moment he’d whited out on. This wasn’t _bad._ And it helped - of this, Alec was sure. What he wasn’t sure of was whether the same thing would happen when he’d cross into Magnus’s wards as had happened when Magnus crossed into the Institute’s. Magnus had crafted the Institute’s ward; that’s what Alec was counting on.

There was only one way to find out what would happen. Alec stepped forward, and crossed the street. His breath sounded too loud, so loud he nearly wondered if he’d redrawn a rune and failed to notice. But no, he hadn’t yet crossed the threshold or if he had, this didn’t work. Alec just kept walking, half hoping and half not that he was right.

He was: it caught him as he raised his hand to push the door. It was - and wasn’t - the same as what had happened at the Institute: a second that washed all other things away, but this time it didn’t feel as if nothing was important but that which was calling out to him. Instead, it felt as if he was ground zero for that call. It took the world away all the same, and he could _feel_ it catching at the end other.

It was just a split-second; yet he only fully came back to himself already inside the elevator. Then, he remembered what earlier he was too hazy and numb to recall: that this was dangerous. That he was courting disaster, playing with a particularly potent form of magic, and the only defense he had was the good will of a _warlock_ he knew for a little more than a week. Then again, that was how he got into this whole mess to begin with: because Magnus was _there_ when no one else was.

That often was how people got in trouble with warlocks.

The thought was laid aside and nearly forgotten soon as he opened the loft’s front door. The air was heavy with the scent of _food_ , so many spices that Alec couldn’t tell them apart. It smelled like - he didn’t even have a basis for comparison; like the very definition of _appetizing_ , perhaps, like something that could fill a void Alec didn’t even realize he was carrying around until the solution presented itself.

Until Magnus presented it.

Magnus looked up from the stove and smiled at him as he entered the kitchen. Alec smiled back hesitantly. His lack of confidence must’ve showed, because Magnus expertly rolled some of the noodles on the cooking spoon and offered it to Alec, cautioning, “It’s hot.”

No sooner did the bite touch his tongue than he realized Magnus didn’t mean the temperature. He coughed and said “In more than one way!” before he could think better of it.

Magnus didn’t laugh at him; Alec should’ve probably expected that. Instead, he summoned a glass out of thin air and handed it to Alec, who didn’t bother to sniff it before drinking; whatever it was, it was guaranteed to be alcoholic - this _was_ Magnus Bane. The herbaceous scent of it caught Alec’s attention anyway.

Whatever it was, it got the job done. The taste was mostly herbs and alcohol, with a background of something citrusy and bitter. It wasn’t bad, but it _was_ stronger than the cocktails Alec remembered. He glanced up at Magnus, who waived his concerns off with a shake of his head and “You’ll be fine.”

That wasn’t particularly informative but then, it was too late to not trust Magnus.

 

* * *

A few nights after that, he was unsurprised as the loft’s front door swung open before him. By then, he could feel Magnus’s worry prickling at him for hours, since shortly after the scuffle. It’s only been endearing briefly; then it became nagging and eventually, after the post-mission debrief was finally over, it may as well have been a demand: Alec could either go to Magnus’s and have this dealt with, or forget about falling asleep that night - or what was left of the night, anyway.

So it was no surprise the door was opened from the inside, or that Magnus was anxiously waiting by the coffee table, which, in turns, was covered with vials, amphoras and assorted other containers, all containing pastes, potions or the ingredients thereof.

Alec was too tired to verbally acknowledge any of that. Instead he shrugged off his jacket, pulled off his shirt and sat - very nearly _flopped_ \- down on the couch, his injured side facing out for easier access.

“What happened?” Magnus asked as he first looked, then gently prodded at the lacerations.

“Gale Gewitter,” Alec said; another warlock. “Thought a little Forsaken army would be nice to have, with Valentine on the prowl.”

“Oh,” Magnus said, and: “I’m sorry.”

“She’s not your fault.” Gewitter didn’t particularly care for Mundanes, but she never stayed long enough in any one place that any High Warlock could be held accountable for her.

“Did you get her, or…?”

“She portaled out.” Injured and bleeding, but she portaled to Angel knows where before they could lay a hand on her. “Might’ve changed her mind about creating Forsakens en mass, though.”

“Hopefully.” The unmistakable screech of glass on glass indicated Magnus unstopped one of the vials. “Left hand please?”

That was his uninjured side. Still, Alec offered it without so much as a glance at what Magnus was doing. It was a bad night, he was tired, and - it occurred to Alec he probably couldn’t have found what it’d’ve taken to question or refuse, anyway. He’d said _yes_ too many times.

Magnus unwrapped a Mundane alcohol swab and sterile needle, carefully pricked Alec’s finger, and directed the drop of blood into a small glass goblet that had a paste-like potion in it.

“Sorry about that; this formula requires the patient’s blood to activate, but - oh, there we go.”

Magnus started painting the paste unto the lacerations. Alec’s eyes closed. He could _feel_ the potion working, sucking out somehow the poison that interfered with runic healing. He hadn’t realized how far the pulsing pain of it spread until it started receding. This, this was why it wasn’t worth it to fight the instinct to say _yes_ each time.

There was a trick to it, to being party to a Bond, but it only opened up if one was willing to trust it. Then it was possible to step aside within one’s mind, let the Bond hold you up, like floating on your back in a seawater. It was rest, and more than that: it was healing, and his ribs weren’t the only part of Alec bruised and battered.

He’d say yes until he forgot how to say no, for this; and no matter how worry grew, like vines on a wall.

 

* * *

It was strange, being on a mission with Magnus. Strange, and uneasy: Alec was used to being out with someone he had a Bond with, but it was a different Bond and a different person. The difference kept tripping him up, making him feel as if something was wrong. The way this Bond kept demanding his attention didn’t help either; it was one thing to deal with that in the safety of the Institute or Magnus’s home, and something else entirely when it was in a strange place, out on a job. On the bright side, Ragnor Fell’s wards didn’t make the Bond spike, thus proving that only wards created by Magnus could do that.

As for Fell, he was also proving to be a _particularly_ bad example of why the Clave disliked contracting warlocks, even the well-behaved ones. He might be Magnus’s friend, but he made Alec’s already frayed patience run even thinner, so much so that Alec found himself regretting that the Bond wasn’t more distracting. That was a dangerous wish: the only support he had were anything to happen was Clary, and she was likely to be useless at best and trouble at worse. Alec couldn’t afford distraction, no matter how much he wished for it.

Eventually, he ran out of patience. “Enough with the warlock games. Can you wake Jocelyn, or not?”

“Not without the Book of the White,” Fell snapped back. 

“What’s the Book of the White?” Clary asked.

“It’s a singular collection of magic, containing some of the most intricate and powerful spells to have ever been dreamed by warlocks.”

“But if you don’t have the Book…”

“I possessed the Book when your mother came to me; I used its contents to create the potion. Regrettably, I no longer have the book. I asked your mother to hide the Book so that Valentine may never find it.”

Brilliant, Alec thought scathingly. Hopefully they’d only need to hunt down another painting of Jocelyn’s, but Alec didn’t hold much hope for that; Jocelyn was too much the Shadowhunter - too much a Circle member - to use the same trick twice.

Clary put on her most Mundane face. “Ragnor, please. I have to get my mom back. Is there any way to trace the Book of the White?”

“Possibly; I have something that can help us - will be but a moment.”

No sooner did Fell disappear upstairs then Magnus attempted conversation - about interior design. The conversation didn’t last long, though: a scream sounded from above then Ragnor fell over the banister, struggling with a shax demon - which he successfully destroyed. Too late, though: when he hit the floor, Alec could see the cut across his neck. 

Warlocks weren’t much more resilient than Mundanes, when it came to physical injuries; the stronger of them could fall back on their own magic to heal, but this was an injury that could kill a Shadowhunter - a warlock didn’t stand a chance.

Magnus was promptly by his friend’s side. His help may or may not be enough - Alec remembered how Magnus had struggled with an Alpha bite, which, dangerous as it was, had nothing on straight-up demon venom. Alec begun moving, then stopped: Clary dashed upstairs, no doubt hoping to find whatever it was that could lead them to the Book. Alec could help either Magnus or her, but not both. Fell was a warlock. He was also one of the few to have been granted residence in Idris, and Magnus’s friend. Clary was barely half-trained, but obnoxiously lucky, and - Ragnor was the shax’ target; Clary was likely to be left alone.

Mind made up, Alec stepped forward and put both his hands on Magnus’s shoulders.

Wasn’t saving lives what Shadowhunters were for?

 

* * *

Soon as he laid Magnus down in a bed, Lydia turned Alec towards her. “You okay?” she demanded. No sooner did she ask, though, then Isabelle bellowed for her from across the infirmary and Lydia ran over, leaving him. Alec wasn’t sure what to do, how he could help, so he sat down on an empty bed and waited.

Seconds later, sunshine spilled into the Institute as Hodge opened the front door to let in a tall, female person, wearing a hospital uniform. Her dark skin melted into a cascade of magic even as she strode across the floor, and reappeared blue instead: this was Catarina Loss. Alec felt dizzy with relief: Loss was best known as a healer, and Magnus hadn’t protested the claim that she was stronger than he.

Hodge marched her over to where Ragnor was laying on Magnus’s other side, then turned on Alec. “You. Jacket off.”

“I’m fine, Hodge,” Alec said, but took his jacket off nonetheless.

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Hodge didn’t have long to examine him or grill him for details of what went wrong before Isabelle yelled again, this time for him. Evidently she’d dismissed Lydia, because his fiance came over.

“You okay?” She asked, eyes skittering all over him.

Alec raised his arms, palms out. “No injuries.”

“Thank the Angel. What happened?”

“The spell to wake Jocelyn is from some obscure warlock resource called the Book of the White. Fell no longer has it; he gave it to Jocelyn to hide. He does have something to help _find_ the Book, but the shax attacked before he could find it.”

“Clary was holding on to this.” Lydia showed him a narrow, embroidered piece of cloth that looked as if it’s been torn off something. “Could be a bookmark?”

“May be. How could Clary know what to look for, though?”

“No idea. I’ll ask her later, if she survives.”

“If she _survives?_ ”

“Two poisoned injuries.”

Alec’s stomach dropped. “I thought the shax were there for Fell, or I’d’ve never…”

“It was a reasonable assumption, Alec. I’d’ve thought the same. And you made the right choice - Magnus and Ragnor would’ve both been dead if you didn’t stay with them.”

One of their own _should_ be more important, and Clary’s recklessness was always endangering lives - but Alec didn’t get the argue the point, because Hodge was back and in even fouler a mood than before. He chased Lydia away, then bullied Alec into laying down, dumped one of Izzy’s ridiculous Mundane blankets over him and handed him a tall glass of a foul recovery drink and a pill to take with that - more of Izzy’s ideas, these. 

Alec nearly argued, but Hodge was most likely working on Izzy’s orders. Fighting Izzy on anything medical only ever resulted in pain, and besides - if Izzy wanted him back in fighting shape soon as possible, it meant she had something specific in mind, which meant compliance was the safest option to himself and others. And indeed, soon as Hodge was satisfied - or less _dis_ satisfied - with Alec’s state, he sent him over to Izzy.

She was sliding a needle into Jace’s shoulder. Jace was laying in bed, too. Had he been injured? How had Alec failed to notice? As Izzy explained what she needed, though, Alec realized that wasn’t the case: Jace was going to try and save Clary’s life, at a significant risk to his own.

At least he didn’t blame Alec for Clary being endangered _this_ time.

 

* * *

If Jace died, Alec’s last words for him would’ve been denial of Jace’s place in their family. Jace would survive this if anyone could, but if he didn’t - Alec didn’t have the words to explain, even to himself, what that felt like. Magnus might, but as Alec sat by Jace and tried to calm him, in the fitful twilight state Jace had fallen into at about the hour mark, he aggressively chased away thoughts of Magnus whenever they intruded on him. Clary wouldn’t have been injured, Jace wouldn’t be risking his life, if Alec hadn’t stuck with Magnus; and even if it was the right decision to have made - which Alec doubted - that wasn’t the only thing that bothered him. He couldn’t be sure that had truly been _his_ choice, and that - 

He couldn’t bare to think of that, either.

 

* * *

He pushed Clary’s and Jace’s beds together; it helped some. But it wasn’t until hours later, when Alec - too exhausted to be sitting any more - laid down on his other side, that Jace finally relaxed.

 

* * *

Whatever it was that Hodge had given him, it clearly wore off by the time Alec woke up - if it could be called that; the last time he’d felt this bad he’d slept off a couple days after a particularly nasty injury. Which, if he thought about it, wasn’t entirely inaccurate: he _did_ just lend his strength to two works of major healing. That he was Bonded to both Jace and Magnus was just extra.

Carefully, he pried his eyes open. The angle of the light coming in through the stained glass windows indicated it was afternoon; almost half the day had passed since he, Magnus and Clary had gone to talk to Ragnor Fell. Speaking of which - Alec raised his head slightly to better look over Jace’s shoulder. He and Clary weren’t connected, anymore; it meant the shax venom had been cleared out from both their systems - they were going to live. Clary’s visible injuries were beginning to close.

He needed a shower. Or, well, not necessarily _needed_ , but he’d sleep better after one - and there was no doubt he needed more sleep. Alec knew it would likely take him a few days to recover; this sort of effort would’ve taken a couple days to recover from even if he hadn’t gone into it already worn.

Alec pushed himself up, careful to give his blackening vision time to clear before he shifted from sitting to standing, then before he let go of the bed frame. When he finally turned around, he discovered both warlocks were still in the infirmary, both alive - a small miracle, giving Ragnor Fell’s injury - and looking about equally worse for wear. The latter was cause for alarm for Magnus; he must have utterly exhausted his magic, if these hours later he was nowhere near close to recovery.

There was no one else in the infirmary - or outside it, but within Alec’s line of sight - to he allowed himself to sit next to Magnus for a moment, on his way out.

Magnus’s sleep must have been light, because he opened his eyes at the scrape of a chair.

“Sorry,” Alec said quickly. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

Magnus shook his head the tiniest bit and said, voice soft with exhaustion, “You didn’t.” 

That wasn’t actually encouraging given how Magnus looked. “Will you sleep at your place? Because grey isn’t your colour.”

Magnus made a valiant attempt at a smile. “Yours either.” After a moment, he added: “I’m sorry about Clary.”

“Are you sorry your friend survived?” Alec replied, rather sharply.

“No,” Magnus admitted. “But…”

“No buts,” Alec cut him off then added, with less force: “I’m not sorry about your friend either. We made it. Everyone made it.”

Magnus closed his eyes, but Alec didn’t dare hope he fell asleep. Indeed, he opened his eyes a few seconds later, and said: “We need to talk. About Jace.”

“Not now,” Alec said; his voice was stoney with everything he didn’t want to say. _Not ever. He’s not yours._

“ _You_ need to talk,” Magnus insisted. 

The emphasis on the first word was so slight, it took Alec a moment to notice and realize what Magnus meant. _How do **you** know? _ He thought, but didn’t say out loud; he knew how. It was the same way Magnus knew what to cook or dinner or what movie to talk Alec into, the way he knew that Alec’s been injured and what supplies to set out. It was the way this Bond worked.

Right at that moment, though, Alec was too tired for that conversation. He said: “Right now, I need to sleep.”

Magnus’s eyes closed again. He smiled a little, face softening; it let Alec hope he understood what he meant. What he said, though, was: “We also need to talk.”

“Do you _have_ to push?” Alec asked. He didn’t even try to keep the irritation out of his voice.

“No,” Magnus replied, and: “Sorry.”

Alec looked away; he was definitely too tired for _that_ conversation. Although - it occurred to him belatedly - tired or not, this was possibly the clearest he’d been in… a while. Since the day Lydia arrived, possibly, before things began to go wrong. More wrong than Clary Fairchild alone could throw things, at any rate.

And what could he say to that? Alec looked away; there was no meaningful reply he could give to that apology. Instead, he pushed himself up, and left.

 

* * *

It turned out that thin as the parabatai Bond was, Alec could still tell when Jace woke up, if he put his mind to it - which he had. He didn’t try to fool himself that he was giving Jace more time to get his act together; he was dawdling, and he knew it.

When he did eventually get himself the short distance down the hall to Jace’s room, he found the door open and Jace standing by the bed, short sword in hand. Alec tapped the door frame softly and Jace looked up as if startled. Emotions flickered across his face: guilt, fear. The guilt was a new one, but at least made sense; the fear, Alec had no idea what to make of, so he decided to ignore it for the time being.

There was another emotion mixed in with the fear, that Alec couldn’t easily identify. Whatever it was, Alec could feel it mirrored in his own emotions - and could feel his defences rise in response. This wasn’t an emotion Alec was ready to accept just yes.

“I’m still angry,” he said, partially to Jace and partially to himself. And yet there he was, only a few steps apart from Jace. “But you’re still my parabatai, so.”

“I never meant to hurt you.” Jace spoke quickly, so quickly it was difficult to make out the words. It was as if he couldn’t get the words out fast enough - and he wouldn’t even look at Alec as he continued, trying for a more legible speed and not quite succeeding. “I’d _never._ I - Submitting an innocent for torture, that’s wrong. It’s not what Shadowhunters are for, it’s not what we should stand for. I believe that. I still do. But I never - if I realized how much it’d hurt you…” Jace hugged his elbows. He looked young in a way he hadn’t even when Alec first met him. “I’d never do something, _anything_ I knew would hurt you. Never. Alec, _please…_ ” Finally, Jace looked up. Alec almost wished he hadn’t: the fear was back, and the wrongness of it turned his stomach. “Please believe me,” Jace finished quietly, begging.

What was this? Since when did Jace _beg?_ And it was genuine, there was no mistaking - The memory returned to Alec in a flash: _Alec, my brother, my parabatai…_ Jace had been begging all along; Alec was just too wrapped up in his anger to realize that Jace, too, was struggling to balance between what they owed each other, and what they owed each to himself.

With that dawning realization, the anger finally relaxed its hold. Alec hadn’t known how much he wanted for that to happen, until it did. It was hurting both of them, this anger; it was a relief when it finally let up.

“I know,” Alec said. Now his words were spilling out, picking up speed. “I know you didn’t. But - we still made the choices we did, both of us, and I don’t know -”

Something incomprehensible flashed across Jace’s face, too many emotions too close together; with the parabatai Bond so thin, Alec had no way to even begin to guess what Jace was thinking.

Quickly, Jace stepped forward - and when did Alec step into the room - and pressed his mouth against Alec’s.

_ What the hell.  _ Alec stiffened, then pulled Jace off of him. “The hell was that?” he demanded out loud. Jace caused him worry and fear all too many times over the years, but this - this was a different fear altogether. Jace wasn’t into him; Jace was _straight._ Alec knew that with the same certainty he knew he wasn’t; more, even.

What the _hell_ , why did Jace - but then Alec had to focus on the moment: Jace was wide-eyed, pupils dilated, and the fear was back. “Jace,” he began, then realized: “You’re shaking.”

His confusion and concern must’ve sparked something, because their Bond came roaring back to life - but it was roaring like a thousand demons: Jace was a _mess_ , and it took Alec a long moment to begin to unravel the mad fear that’s overtaken Jace’s mind and when he did, he pulled Jace in for a fierce hug even as he stepped down hard on his own guilt; Jace was in no shape to process that. Instead he peeled off his worry and his anger - a different anger than before - to dig up the emotions that formed their foundation, and tossed those at Jace. Now wasn’t the time to worry about finesse, or manners; he needed to shake Jace out of this.

“It’s okay,” he said, as softly as he could, over and over again. “Jace, it’s okay.”

He could feel the moment Jace stopped fighting. He took in air in big gulps, too fast, like someone who’d been drowning and was terrified it would happen again. The shakes intensified, but - Alec thought - maybe if Jace let himself actually _feel_ it, if both of them did, then maybe the storm would pass. And maybe that was true, because Jace let himself lean against Alec, put his head on his shoulder - and oh, by the _Angel,_ it was as if Alec hadn’t know how much he missed Jace until that moment.

“It’s okay,” he kept saying. “We’re okay.”

Incredibly, he even believed it.

 

* * *

Eventually they fell asleep curled up together, face to face on Jace’s bed. It’s been a long time - years - since the last time they’d slept in the same bed; it certainly hasn’t happened since they became parabatai. But Alec’s old secret wasn’t a secret, anymore, and didn’t hold any power over them, besides. 

They did leave the room at one point, late at night, having realized the last either of them ate was at breakfast. Someone other than them must’ve realized that, too, because a tray of potatoes baked in cream had been left out in the kitchen.

Any number of times during the night Alec very nearly said _There’s something I need to tell you_ , or _There’s something you need to know_ , but each time he backed out. The former phrasing was more true than the latter; having finally worked out just _what_ Jace was doing with his sword out in his room, just _how_ badly the past couple of weeks had rattled him, Alec was hesitant to add any more weight.

Eventually it was Jace who asked, in the colourless light of early morning: “What aren’t you telling me?”

Alec hesitated. “What if I said there’s nothing you can do about it?”

“I’d ask why does that matter.”

“Because I think I hurt you enough,” Alec said, before the courage to be this honest would pass.

Even laying down, Jace was visibly taken aback by that statement. After a moment, he said: “I don’t get to say that I know what I’m doing, aren’t I. Not this time.”

Alec sighed, and bent his neck so his forehead touched Jace’s shoulder. “I guess I don’t get to say that, either. I’ll tell you,” he added after a moment. “Just… give me a few hours.”

Jace shifted, tucked Alec’s head under his chin. “I don’t have anywhere else to be.”

 

* * *

Across the street from Magnus’s building, Alec stopped. It occurred to him he didn’t want to go inside Magnus’s wards, not even the first tier of them and definitely not into the inner sanctum of the loft. He was exhausted, still, enough that his muscles ached, but he didn’t want the relief being in the same warded space as Magnus would bring; didn’t want to risk the meager clarity he managed to pull together. 

Instead, he pulled out his cell phone. “Hi,” he said once Magnus picked up, and: “Would you mind going to the park?”

“No,” Magnus said at the other end of the line, “Not at all.”

Alec pocketed his phone, and waited. It wasn’t long until Magnus came out the front door, hands in the pockets of his jacket; it was early enough that the night’s chill was still in the air.

He didn’t ask why Alec didn’t want to come inside; maybe he knew, despite that he hadn’t given any indication - over the past ten days - that he felt the wards effect, too. Or maybe, Alec thought, he was just being Magnus: the sort of a man who’d apologize for his best friend surviving, if he didn’t like the price of it.

When Magnus eventually spoke, it was to ask: “How are things back at the Institute?”

“Well, Catarina dropped by to move Ragnor Fell to her place.”

“Yes, I know; I was awake at the time.”

“Oh. I hadn’t realized.”

The silence didn’t linger long before Magnus asked, guarded and gentle at the same time: “Aren’t you getting married today?”

That was a surprisingly safe turf. “Wedding was postponed,” he answered. His attempt to keep the relief out of his voice only partially succeeded.

“Is that so.”

“Officially, it’s so my best man will be able to stand at my side. Literally.” Both he and Jace were exhausted, but Jace was decidedly the worse for wear.

“And unofficially?”

“Unofficially?” Alec looked up, searching for the sun through the clouds. “Unofficially, I think Lydia got a pretty bad scare.”

“But surely she must’ve realized…” Magnus trailed off.

It wasn’t difficult to understand what Magnus was getting at. “You don’t know.”

“What don’t I know?”

“Lydia was engaged before. He was killed, shortly before the wedding.”

“Oh,” Magnus said, and then as he understood: “ _Oh_.”

They were getting within sight of the park. Only once they stepped into it did Magnus ask: “And how _is_ Jace?”

“Exhausted,” Alec replied in something close to a sigh. “Recovering. We had a pretty long talk.”

“That’s good,” Magnus said. His voice was too guarded for Alec’s taste. Indeed, seconds later Magnus said: “I’m going to have to ask you about Jace. Specifically, about what happened between you before Isabelle’s trial.”

That wasn’t what Alec’s been expecting. He wasn’t sure what he expected, but it wasn’t that. “Other than the part where he came at me with a sword and I almost killed him?” he asked, more than a little sharply. 

Magnus’s mouth opened a little, but he didn’t look away.

Alec did. “I tracked him through our Bond. He and Clary went to Faerie, there was no other way.”

“That sort of a thing could’ve _killed_ you.”

Alec turned his head back. “You think I didn’t know that? What else was I supposed to do?”

It was Magnus’s turn to look away. It wasn’t long before he spoke again, though. “When you came asking for my help with Isabelle’s trial,” he said slowly, “that offer I made, the price I named - I never thought you’d take me up on it. Had I known what you just told me,” he continued, raising his voice slightly to stop Alec from interrupting him, “I’d’ve never said that at all.”

“Does it matter?” Alec asked. His weariness coloured his voice; he didn’t try to mask it.

“Yes. Because it means I can annul the contract.”

Alec looked at him, surprised. So _that’s_ what this was about. Were they having this conversation before Jace almost died, saving Clary’s life - before Clary was injured by Shax because Alec couldn’t detach himself from Magnus - were they having this conversation then, Alec would’ve refused; would’ve insisted that it was fine, that it was - Alec wasn’t sure what sort of an excuse he’d’ve tried to come up with. But they weren’t having this conversation then; they were having it in the now, after Clary’s almost died, after Jace almost did; after Alec’s anger burned through - before it burned his life to the ground, thankfully. And in this present, what Alec felt in response to Magnus’s words was relief.

Magnus nodded slightly, as if he knew.

“How does this work?” Alec asked. “I’d still owe you for the trial.”

“And I’d owe you for the past ten days. If you’d agree, we could declare the two debts to cancel each other out.”

“That works.”

Magnus stopped in place and turned a little so they were facing each other at a slight angle. “Then you agree?”

“I agree.”

Just like that, he could feel the change, as some sort of power began to gather itself from within his body, pulling away. Where it was gone, Alec felt momentarily cold, empty, out of balance; he couldn’t help the instinctive attempt to grasp, to hold on, to regret the choice he just made. Then the moment passed, and instead Alec felt - whole.

Then the nausea hit, strong enough to make Alec double over at the conflict between these parts of him were that power still lingered and the knowledge that he was better for it being gone. Then the last threads dissipated and Alec’s head rang, empty and clear like a room from which all the furniture’s been moved. That feeling didn’t last long, either. Instead, everything he’s spent the past two weeks pushing aside slowly emerged as if from under a blanket of snow.

Slowly, Alec pulled himself up.

He couldn’t help the stab of fear, or the instinctive flinch that came with it; but as Magnus hastily pulled back from him, the word that spilled from Alec’s lips was: “No!”

Magnus froze in place.

Alec searched for words. Everything felt strange, new; it was as if he’d been away from his life, from his own mind, and now had to learn them again. It wasn’t a bad feeling, but it was a little disconcerting - and it certainly made it harder to express himself, or even understand what it was he wanted to express.

He wasn’t angry with Magnus. Of that, he was sure. He wasn’t angry, or afraid; and as he chased that thread, he realized what it was he wanted to say. “When I came to you that day,” he said, slowly, “I was thinking that - that you were the only person who was _there_. No one else was: not my parents, not anyone. Even Jace wasn’t. And I knew - just before you said _that_ I was thinking, the first offer is always for negotiation only. I knew that.”

“And yet you accepted it.”

“I did. I was - I don’t know what I was. But I needed something, and you were offering.”

“I’m not sure how I feel about you taking responsibility for - this. Like I said before, had I known...”

Alec cut him off. “Magnus. That’s exactly it. You didn’t know, and yet -” He spread his arms. “What were the odds - Magnus, you insisted - I figure the only way I could’ve made it here _fine_ , with enough mind of my own to talk to Jace, to want the contract undone - the only way that could’ve happened is if you worked at it really, really hard.”

Magnus didn’t say anything, but Alec could read the truth on his face: Magnus did work at it and knew it, yet he didn’t _understand._

“You were there, okay?” Alec said. “When no one else was. And maybe it was crazy of me to accept the terms I did, but the thing is, I wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t wrong of me to trust you.”

Magnus’s entire body responded to the shock of that declaration. For a moment, the mask he so carefully crafted dropped and Alec could see - not the High Warlock of Brooklyn, but a man who’d turned away from love after having his heart broken once, and accepted that as his due; a man who wasn’t prepared for a statement like the one Alec had just made. Yet even when the shock was pushed away and smoothed over, some vulnerability that Alec didn’t understand lingered still. Eventually that passed, too. Magnus’s expression remained soft, wondering almost, but Alec couldn’t decipher what, exactly, it was. 

“Then I’m honored,” Magnus said, “to be worthy of such trust.”

“Thank you,” Alec said. “For everything.”

For another moment they remained standing, staring at each other in the early morning breeze. Eventually, Magnus visibly shook himself.

“If I were to invite you to breakfast…” he said, letting the sentence trail.

“Then I’d gladly accept.”

“Excellent.” Magnus offered his arm. “Shall we?”

Alec gave him a Look, but as Magnus’s carefully-crafted expression didn’t waver Alec swallowed back a sigh and, with a smile he couldn’t quite hold in, took Magnus’s arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for coming along for the ride, and I hope you had a good time!
> 
> If you enjoyed this story, please consider leaving kudos or a comment. Thank you!


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